A  BOSWELL  OF 
I       BAGHDAD 

E.V.LUCAS 


Y^  .n.  .\jO 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


A  BOSWELL  OF  BAGHDAD 

E.      V.       LUCAS 


By     E.    V.    LUCAS 

More  Wanderings  in  London 

Cloud  and  Silver 

The  Vermilion  Box 

The  Hausfrau  Rampant 

Landmarks 

Listener's  Lure 

Mr.  Ingleside 

Over  Bemerton's 

Loiterer's  Harvest 

One  Day  and  Another 

Fireside  and  Sunshine 

Character  and  Comedy 

Old  Lamps  for  New 

The  Hambledon  Men  » 

The  Open  Road 

The  Friendly  Town 

Her  Infinite  Variety — 

Good  Company — 

The  Gentlest  Art 

The  Second  Post 

A  Little  of  Everything 

Harvest  Home 

Variety  Lane 

The  Best  of  Lamb 

The  Life  of  Charles  Lamb 

A  Swan  and  Her  Friends 

A  Wanderer  in  Venice 

A  Wanderer  in  Paris 

A  Wanderer  in  London 

A  Wanderer  in  Holland 

A  Wanderer  in  Florence 

Highways  and  Byways  in  Sussex 

Anne's  Terrible  Good  Nature 

The  Slowcoach 

and 
The   Pocket   Edition   of   the   Works   of 

Charles  Lamb:  i.  Miscellaneous  Prose; 

II.  Elia;     III.    Children's    Books;    iv. 

Poems  and  Plays;  v.  and  vi.  Letters. 


A    BOSWELL 
OF   BAGHDAD 


,1' 


'      BY 

E.  V.  LUCAS 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917. 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. 

Iktroductory 

.       11 

II. 

Ibn  Kiiallikan      . 

15 

III. 

Mek  of  Letters     . 

19 

IV. 

The  First  Grammahiak         . 

26 

V. 

The  First  Prosodist 

32 

VI. 

A  Group  of  Poets  .         » 

33 

VII. 

Poetry's  Rewards  •         .         « 

41 

VIII. 

A  Brave  Poet        .         .         . 

50 

IX. 

A  Western  Interlude  . 

62 

X. 

Persian  Humour    . 

55 

XI. 

The  Satirists 

60 

XII. 

An  Early  Chess  Champion 

.       66 

XIII. 

COUETESY    AND    JuSTICE      . 

.       72 

XIV. 

The  Ascetics 

.       81 

XV. 

A  Night  Scene     . 

.       85 

XVI. 

The  Fair 

.       89 

XVII. 

The  Great  Jaafar         . 

.       91 

XVIII. 

Love  and  Lo\"ers    .         -t 

.       9i 

XIX. 

To  DiSAR:yi   Critics 

V 

.      99 

Contents 

DIVERSIONS- 
PAGE 

Nurses     ........  103 

No.   344260 109 

The  Two  Perkikses         .....  116 

Arts  of  Invasiok     ......  128 

The  Marble  Arch  and  Peter  Magnus     .         .  138 

The  Oldest  Joke     ......  143 

The  Puttenhams     ......  150 

Poetry  Made  Easy  ......  158 

A  Pioneer       ......          .  163 

Full  Circle 168 

A  Friend  of  Man 174 

I.  The  Fallen  Star 174 

II.  The  New  Book  of  Beauty    .         .         .  177 

The  Listener  .......  181 

The  Dark  Secret    ......  186 

The  Scholar  and  the  Pirate  ....  190 

A  Set  of  Three     ......  201 

A  Lesson 206 

ON  BELLONA'S  HEM— 

A  Revel  in  Gambogia      .....  211 

The  Misfire 217 

(vi) 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  Letter 222 

A  Manor  in  the  Am      .....  229 

Rivalry  ......••  233 

A  First  Commttnion  in  the  War  Zone     .          .  239 

The  Ace  or  Diamonds 244 

The  Reward  of  Our  Brother  the  Poilxx  .         .  249 


(vii) 


A  BOSWELL  OF  BAGHDAD 


A   BOSWELL 
OF   BAGHDAD 

I     Introductory 

A  CURIOUS  and  very  entertaining  work  lies 
before  me^  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  ramparts 
me,  for  it  is  in  four  ponderous  volumes,  capable, 
each,  even  in  less  powerful  hands  than  those  of 
the  Great  Lexicographer,  of  felling  a  bookseller. 
At  these  volumes  I  have  been  sipping,  beelike, 
at  odd  times  for  some  years,  and  I  now  propose 
to  yield  some  of  the  honey — the  season  having 
become  timely,  since  the  great  majority  of  the 
heroes  of  its  thousands  of  pages  hail  from 
Baghdad;  and  Baghdad,  after  all  its  wonderful 
and  intact  Oriental  past,  is  to-day  under  Britain's 
thumb. 

The  title  of  the  book  is  Ibn  Khallihan's  Bio- 
graphical Dictionary ,  translated  from  the  Arabic 
by    Bn    Mac    Guckin    de    Slane,    and    printed    in 
Paris  for  the  Oriental  Translation  Fimd  of  Great 
11 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

Britain  and  Ireland,  1842-71,  some  centuries 
after  it  was  written,  for  its  author  was  dead 
before  Edward  II  ascended  the  English  throne. 
Who  would  expect  Sir  Sidney  Lee  to  have  had 
so  remote  an  exemplar? 

Remote  not  only  in  time  but  in  distance. 
For  although  we  may  go  to  the  East  for  religions 
and  systems  of  philosophy  that  were  old  and 
proved  worthy  centuries  before  Hellenism  or 
Christianity,  yet  we  do  not  usually  find  there 
models  for  our  works  of  reference.  Hardly  does 
Rome  give  us  those.  But  there  is  an  orderliness 
and  thorouglmess  about  Ibn  Khallikan's  methods 
which  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  does 
not  exceed.  The  Persian  may  be  more  lenient 
to  floridity  ("No  flowers,  by  request,"  was,  it  will 
be  remembered,  the  first  English  editor's  motto), 
but  in  his  desire  to  leave  out  no  one  who  ought 
to  be  in  and  to  do  justice  to  his  inclusions  he  is 
beyond  praise. 

The  modernity  of  the  ancients  is  continually 
surprising  us.  It  is  one  of  the  phenomena  to  which 
we  are  never  quite  inured  (and  could  we  be  so  we 
should  perhaps  merely  substitute  the  antiquity 
of  the  moderns  as  a  new  source  of  wonder), 
(12) 


A  Persian  Gossip 

but  towards  such  inuring  Ibn  Khallikan  should 
certainly  help,  since  he  was  eminently  a  gossip, 
and  in  order  to  get  human  nature's  fidelity  to  the 
type — no  matter  where  found,  whether  aeons 
ago  or  to-day,  whether  in  savage  lands  or,  as  we 
say,  civilized — ^brought  home  to  us,  it  is  to  the 
gossips  that  we  must  resort:  to  the  Pepyses  and 
Boswells  rather  than  to  the  Goethes  and  Platos; 
to  the  little  recorders  rather  than  the  great 
thinkers.     The  small  traits  tell. 

Ibn  Khallikan's  Dictionary  is  as  interesting  as 
it  is,  not  because  its  author  had  any  remarkable 
instinct  as  a  biographer,  or  any  gift  of  selection, 
but  because  if  a  man  sets  out  to  take  account 
of  everything,  much  human  nature  and  a  little 
excellence  are  bound  to  creep  in. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  have  dug  in  these 
volumes  with  any  great  seriousness.  My  object 
has  been  to  extract  what  was  odd  and  simple 
and  most  characteristic,  in  short,  what  was 
most  human,  and  there  is  enough  residuum 
for  a  horde  of  other  miners.  But  I  warn 
them  that  the  dross  is  considerable.  Ibn 
Khallikan's  leniency  to  trivialities  is  incorrigible, 
and  his  pages  are  filled  with  pointless  anecdotes, 

(13) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

dull  sayings,  and  poetry  whose  only  recommonda- 
tion  is  its  richness  in  the  laboured  conceits  that 
he  loved.  So  much  did  he  esteem  them  that  were, 
say,  all  English  intellectual  effort  in  every  direc- 
tion at  his  disposal  to  descant  upon,  his  favourite 
genius  would  probably  be  John  Lyly. 

But  although  most  of  the  poetry  admired  and 
quoted  by  Ibn  Khallikan  is  marked  by  affecta- 
tion, now  and  then — but  very  rarely — it  is  beau- 
tifully simple.  Thus,  in  one  of  the  poems  of 
Ibn  Zuhr,  a  learned  Moslim  teacher  and  physi- 
cian of  Spain  (1113-99),  is  expressed,  with  a 
tenderness  and  charm  that  no  modern  or  no 
Greek  of  the  Anthology  could  exceed,  the  ardent 
desire  which  he  felt  for  the  sight  of  his  child, 
from  whom  he  happened  to  be  separated:  /  have 
a  little  one,  a  tender  nestling,  with  whom  I  have 
left  my  heart.  I  dwell  far  from  him;  how  deso- 
late I  feel  in  the  absence  of  thai  little  person 
and  that  little  face.  He  longs  for  me,  and  I  long 
for  him;  for  me  he  weeps,  and  I  weep  for  him. 
Our  affectionate  wishes  are  weary  with  passing 
from  him  to  me,  from  me  to  him. 


(14) 


Himself 

II     Ibn  Khallikajj 

Let  me  say  something  as  to  who  Ibn  Khallikan 
was.  His  father_,  Muhammad  Ibn  Ibrahim,  was 
professor  in  the  college  at  Arbela  founded  by 
Kukuburi_,  or  the  Blue  Wolf,  the  governor  of 
that  city  and  the  region  of  which  it  was  the 
capital,  the  brother-in-law  of  Salah  Ad-Din,  the 
sultan,  whom  we  in  England  know  as  Saladin, 
the  enemy  of  the  Cross,  and  the  son  of  Ali  Ibn 
Bektikin,  known  as  "Little  Ali,  the  Ornament  of 
Religion."  Kukuburi,  who,  although  standing 
for  the  Crescent  and  all  that  was  most  abhorrent 
to  our  Crusaders,  was  famous  as  a  founder  of 
asylums,  schools,  hospitals  for  the  blind,  homes 
for  widows,  orphanages,  and  so  forth,  made 
special  favourites  of  the  family  of  which  Ibn 
Khallikan  was  a  scion.  Ibn  himself  was  born  on 
September  22,  1211,  and  before  he  was  two 
had  begun  instruction  by  his  father  and  was  the 
recipient  of  a  certificate  from  Zainab,  a  very 
learned  lady,  stating  that  he  was  an  industrious 
pupil. 

In  1229,  after  having  already  read  and  studied 
much,      particularly      theology   and      law,      Ibn 

(15) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

Khallikan  left  Arbela  with  his  brother  and  en- 
tered the  college  of  Aleppo^  then  an  educational 
centre,  remaining  until  1234.  After  this  he 
moved  from  one  place  to  another,  always  seek- 
ing more  knowledge,  until  124.7-8,  when  he  is 
found  at  Cairo  occupying  a  seat  in  the  imperial 
tribunal  and  acting  as  deputy  for  the  kadi 
Sinjar,  chief  judge  and  magistrate  of  all  Egypt. 
Later  he  himself  became  the  kadi  of  Al-Mahalla, 
and  by  1256,  when  he  was  forty-five,  he  had  mar- 
ried, become  a  father,  and  had  completed  the 
first  copy  of  his  Biographical  Dictionary,  which 
was,  of  course,  as  we  must  always  remember  in 
connexion  with  the  books  mentioned  in  these 
Lives,  a  manuscript. 

In  1261  he  was  appointed  chief  kadi  over  all 
the  provinces  of  Syria,  with  his  tribunal  at  Da- 
mascus, in  which  post  he  remained  for  ten  years. 
He  was  not,  however,  sole  kadi  for  long,  as  three 
others  were  appointed  to  assist  him:  a  develop- 
ment that  was  meat  and  drink  to  the  local  sa- 
tirists, one  of  whom  wrote:  The  men  of  Damas- 
cus are  bewildered  with  the  multitude  of  legal 
decisions.  Their  kadis  are  all  suns,  and  yet  they 
are  in  the  dark.  Another  said:  The  people  of 
(16) 


Law  and  Literature 

Damascus  have  witnessed  a  perfect  miracle:  the 
greater  the  number  of  suns  the  more  the  world  is 
in  the  dark.  Being  found  wanting,  and  replaced, 
Ibn  Khallikan  took  a  professorship  in  Cairo, 
learned  by  heart  further  enormous  quantities  of 
poetry,  and  engaged  in  literary  discussions  which, 
judging  by  a  specimen  given  in  one  of  his  Lives, 
were  even  more  futile  than  discussions  usually  are. 

The  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  always  noticeably 
extreme  in  the  East,  brought  him  again  to  be 
kadi  at  Damascus  in  1278,  when  his  reappoint- 
ment was  signalized  by  public  ceremonies,  includ- 
ing the  composition  by  numberless  poets  of  con- 
gratulatory and  adulatory  verses,  which  must  have 
been  very  dear  to  his  simple  old  heart,  and  not 
the  less  so  because  he  may  have  discovered  from 
his  astonishing  repertory  that  not  all  were  strict- 
ly original :  such  discoveries  and  the  tracing  back 
of  the  loans  to  their  fount  being  the  greatest  of 
his  pleasures. 

Thereafter,  until  the  year  1281,  the  Kadi  lived 
with  much  honour,  famed  as  the  most  learned 
and  widely-read  personage  in  Damascus,  filling 
his  house  with  scholars  and  discursive  amateurs 
of  verse,  and  engaging  in  conversations  that  are 

(17) 


'A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

3escribed  by  a  friend  as  "most  instructive^  being 
entirely  devoted  to  learned  investigations  and  the 
elucidation  of  obscure  points." 

But  Ibn  Khallikan,  who  was  now  nearing  three- 
score years  and  ten,  was  destined  still  to  misfor- 
tune, for  suddenly,  in  1281,  he  was  deposed  from 
his  kadi-ship  and,  more  than  that,  thrown  into 
prison  on  the  charge  of  having  made  a  remark 
detrimental  to  the  sultan,  Kalavun.  A  pardon 
soon  after  arriving,  he  was  liberated  and  again 
reinstated;  but  after  ten  more  months  as  a  kadi 
he  was,  in  1282,  dismissed  finally,  and  this  time 
he  refused  ever  more  to  leave  his  house,  and  died 
there  in  the  same  year. 

Not  a  word  (you  will  say)  so  far  as  to  Bagh- 
dad. But  although  Ibn  Khallikan  spent  most  of 
his  life  in  Egypt  or  Syria,  the  greater  number  of 
his  heroes  were,  as  I  have  said,  citizens  all  of  the 
city  of  the  romance  which  recently  has  fallen  to 
Sir  Stanley  Maude's  gallant  forces.  Yet  of  the 
romance  which  we  shall  always  associate  with 
Baghdad  he  knew  nothing.  To  him  it  was  delect- 
able (and  perhaps  even  romantic  too — each  of  us 
having  his  own  conception  of  what  romance  is) 
because  grave  bearded  men  there  taught  religion, 
(18) 


Contests  of  Euphuism 

explained  tlie  Koran,  disputed  as  to  points  of 
grammar,  exchanged  sarcasms  and  swapped 
verses.  Not,  however,  as  I  hope  to  show,  un- 
amusingly. 

What  indeed  I  particularly  like  about  the  book 
is  the  picture  that  it  gives  of  sardonic  pleasantry 
and  intellectual  and  sophisticated  virtuosity  go- 
ing quietly  on  side  by  side  with  all  the  splendours 
and  barbarities  of  absolute  autocracy  and  sum- 
mary jurisdiction.  It  throws  a  new  or  unaccus- 
tomed light  on  those  days.  Not  even  yet — ^not 
even  in  Bloomsbury,  where  the  poets  meet — have 
we  in  England  anything  quite  like  it;  whereas 
when  Baghdad  and  Damascus  were  the  theatres 
of  these  poetical  and  hair-splitting  competitions 
our  ancestors  had  but  just  got  the  woad  off. 

Ill     Men  of  Letters 

Those  of  us  who  know  Baghdad  only  through 
the  Arabian  Nights  and  the  ingenious  productions 
of  Mr.  Oscar  Asche,  were  not  prepared  for  such  a 
complete  foreshadowing  of  the  literary  life  and 
the  literary  temperament  as  Ibn  Khallikan  gives 
us. 

Here,  for  example,  is  a  poem  by  a  book-lover 

(19) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

— or  manuscript-lover,  to  be  more  exact — ^written 
by  Ibn  Faris  Ar-Razi,  the  philologer,  who  died 
before  the  Norman  Conquest,  which  a  later  Oc- 
cidental can  cheerfully  accept  and  could  not  much 
improve  upon:  They  ashed  me  how  I  was.  I 
answered:  "Well,  some  things  succeed  and  some 
fail;  when  my  heart  is  filled  with  cares  I  say: 
'One  day  perhaps  they  may  be  dispelled/  A  cat 
is  my  companion ;  hooks,  the  friends  of  my  heart; 
and  a  lamp,  my  beloved  consort."  That  is  mod- 
ern enough !  Something  of  this  kind,  which  is  an 
earlier  version  of  Omar  Khayyam's  famous  recipe 
for  earthly  bliss,  has  often  been  attempted  since 
by  our  own  poets;  but  nothing  better.  Favourite 
books,  a  lighted  lamp,  a  faithful  cat,  and  the  li- 
brary were  paradise  enow.  It  is  odd,  by  the  way, 
that  Omar  Khayyam  himself,  although  his  dates 
qualify  him,  is  not  found  in  this  work.  But  to 
make  tents,  even  with  leanings  towards  astron- 
omy, was  no  high  road  to  Ibn  Khallikan's  sym- 
pathies. Had  Omar  explained  the  Koran  or  had 
views  on  the  suffixes  of  words,  all  would  have 
been  well. 

While  on  the  subject  of  sufficient  paradises  let 
me  quote  some  verses  by  Ibn  Sukkara  Al-Hashi- 
(20) 


The  Seven  Essentials 

mi,  a  famous  Baghdad  poet  of  the  tenth  century: 
The  winter  set  in,  and  I  provided  myself  with 
seven  things  necessary  when  the  rain  prevents  us 
from  pursuing  our  usual  occupations.  These 
things  are:  A  shelter,  a  purse,  a  stove,  a  cup  of 
wine  preceded  by  a  bit  of  meat,  a  tender  maid, 
and  a  cloak. 

Ibn  Khallikan  does  not  let  it  stop  there,  but 
fishes  up  from  his  memory  a  derivative,  by  Ibn 
Al-Taawizi,  running  thus:  When  seven  things  are 
collected  together  in  the  drinking-room,  it  is  not 
reasonable  to  stay  away.  These  a-re:  Boast  meat, 
a  melon,  honey,  a  young  girl,  wax-lights,  a  singer 
to  delight  us,  and  wine. 

So  much  for  the  modernity  and  sense  of  com- 
fort of  the  Persian  author,  as  he  flourished  in 
Baghdad  all  those  years  ago.  But  there  was  then 
still  more  in  publishing  than  yet  meets  the  eye. 
The  books  of  the  juriconsult,  Al-]Mawardi,  for 
example,  reached  posterity  almost  by  chance. 
■  vVhile  he  lived  he  did  not  publish  any  of  his 
works  but  put  them  all  up  together  in  safety.  On 
the  approach  of  death,  however,  he  said  to  a  per- 
son who  possessed  his  confidence:  "The  books  in 
such  a  place  were  composed  by  me,  but  I  ab- 

(21) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

stained  from  publishing  them^  because  I  suspect- 
ed^ although  my  intention  in  writing  them  was 
to  work  in  God's  service,  that  that  feeling,  in- 
stead of  being  pure,  was  sullied  by  baser  mo- 
tives. Therefore,  when  you  perceive  me  on  the 
point  of  death  and  falling  into  agony,  take  my 
hand  in  yours,  and  if  I  press  it,  you  will  know 
thereby  that  none  of  these  works  has  been  ac- 
cepted [by  God]  from  me.  In  this  case,  you 
must  take  them  all  and  throw  them  by  night  into 
the  Tigris.  But  if  I  open  my  hand  and  close  it 
not,  that  is  the  sign  of  their  having  been  ac- 
cepted, and  that  my  hope  in  the  admission  of  my 
intention  as  sincere  and  pure,  has  been  fulfilled." 

"When  Al-!Mawardi's  death  drew  near,"  said 
his  friend,  "I  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  he 
opened  it  without  closing  it  on  mine,  whence 
I  knew  that  his  labours  had  been  accejDted,  and 
I  then  published  his  works." — But  what  a  re- 
sponsibility for  a  friend ! 

Penmanship  being,  of  course,  the  only  medium 
between  author  and  readers  in  those  days,  it  fol- 
lows that  calligraphy  was  held  in  high  esteem, 
and  among  famous  calligraphers  was  Kabus  Ibn 
Wushmaghir,  who,  although  "the  greatest  of 
(22) 


The  Beloved  Calligrapher 

princes,  the  star  of  the  age,  and  the  source  of 
justice  and  beneficence,"  thought  it  worth  while 
(as  all  mighty  rulers  have  not)  to  write  a  most 
beautiful  hand.  When  the  Sahib  Ibn  Abbad 
saw  pieces  in  his  handwriting,  he  used  to  say: 
"This  is  either  the  writing  of  Kabus  or  the  wing 
of  a  peacock";  and  he  would  then  recite  these 
verses  of  Al-Mutanabbi's :  In  every  heart  is  a 
passion  for  his  handwriting;  it  might  be  said  that 
the  ink  rvliich  he  employed  rvas  a  cause  of  love. 
His  presence  is  a  comfort  for  every  eye,  and  his 
absence  an  affliction. 

The  extraordinary  literary  activity  of  those 
times  may  be  illustrated  by  the  following  passage 
dropped  casually  into  the  biographical  notice  of 
Ali  Talib:  "The  grandson  of  this  thief  was  the 
famous  Al-Asmai,  the  philologer,  who  composed 
treatises  on  the  following  subjects:  the  human 
frame;  the  different  species  of  animals;  on  the 
anrva,  or  influence  of  the  stars  on  the  weather; 
on  the  letter  hamzaj  on  the  long  and  the  short 
elifj  on  the  difference  between  the  names  given 
to  the  members  of  the  human  body  and  those 
given  to  the  same  members  in  animals;  on  epi- 
thets; on  the  doors  of  tents;  on  games  of  chance 

(23) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

played  with  arrows;  on  the  frame  of  the  horse; 
on  horses;  on  camels;  on  sheep;  on  tents;  on 
wild  beasts;  on  the  first  and  fourth  form  of  cer- 
tain verbs ;  on  proverbs ;  on  words  bearing  each 
two  opposite  significations;  a  vocabulary;  on 
weapons;  on  dialects;  on  the  springs  of  water 
frequented  by  the  nomadic  Arabs;  a  collection 
of  anecdotes;  on  the  principles  of  discourse;  on 
the  heart;  on  synonymous  terms;  on  the  Arabian 
peninsida;  on  the  formation  of  derivative  words; 
on  the  ideas  which  usually  occur  in  poetry;  on 
nouns  of  action;  on  rajaz  verses;  on  the  palm- 
tree;  on  plants;  on  homonymous  terms;  on  the 
obscure  expressions  met  with  in  the  Traditions; 
on  the  witticisms  of  the  desert  Arabs."  Ibn 
closes  the  list  with  the  word  "etc."  The  late 
John  Timbs  could  hardly  beat  this  record  of  in- 
dustry and  versatility. 

There  is  hope  for  authors  in  the  following 
story  of  Ibn  Al-Khashshab,  who  knew  the  Koran 
by  heart  and  was  a  scholar  of  considerable  at- 
tainments. "When  he  died/'  says  the  Katib  Imad 
Ad-Din,  "I  was  in  Syria,  and  I  saw  him  one 
night  in  a  dream,  and  said  to  him:  'How  has 
God  treated  thee.''* 
(24) 


Crumbs  of  Comfort 

"  'Well/  he  replied. 

"'Does  God  show  mercy  to  literary  men?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'And  if  they  have  been  remiss  ?' 

"  'A  severe  reprimand  will  be  given,  but,  Al- 
Khashshab  was  moved  to  add,  and  let  us  never 
forget  it,  'then  will  come  eternal  happiness.'  " 

There  are  other  scraps  of  consolation,  scat- 
tered about  the  volumes,  which  apply  not  alone  to 
men  of  letters.  The  Prophet,  for  example,  once 
said:  "Every  lie  shall  be  written  down  as  a  lie 
by  the  recording  angels,  with  the  exception  of 
three:  a  lie  told  in  order  to  reconcile  two  men;  a 
lying  promise  made  by  a  man  to  his  wife;  and  a 
lie  in  which  a  man,  when  engaged  in  war,  makes 
a  promise  or  a  threat." 

But  the  most  solacing  sentiment  in  the  whole 
four  volumes  is  by  the  poet  Abu  Nuwas  Ibn 
Hani,  who  carried  Hedonism  very  far:  Multiply 
thy  sins  to  the  utmost,  for  thou  art  to  meet  an  in- 
dulgent Lord.  When  thou  comest  before  Him, 
thou  shalt  behold  mercy  and  meet  the  great,  the 
powerful  King.  Then  thou  shcdt  gnaw  thy  hands 
with  regret,  for  the  pleasures  which  thou  avoidest 
through  fear  of  hell. — It  is,  says  Ibn  Khallikan, 

(25) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

a  "very  fine  and  original  thought."     It  could  cer- 
tainly be  a  very  stimulating  one. 


IV     The  First  Grammarian 

Grammarians  and  Traditionists  (both  given 
also  to  poesy)  being  Ibn  Khallikan's  real  heroes, 
let  me  say  something  of  each.  A  Traditionist 
was  a  learned  man  intimate  with  the  Koran, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  separate  the  spurious  tradi- 
tions which  so  naturally  would  have  collected 
around  such  a  figure  as  Muhammad  from  the 
true.  As  to  the  importance  of  the  Koran  in 
Moslim  life  and  its  place  as  the  foundation  of 
all  INIoslim  learning,  let  the  translator  of  Ibn 
Khallikan  be  heard.  "The  necessity/'  he  says, 
"of  distinguishing  the  genuine  Traditions  from 
the  false  gave  rise  to  new  branches  of  literature. 
A  just  appreciation  of  the  credit  to  which  each 
Traditionist  was  entitled  could  only  be  formed 
from  a  knowledge  of  his  moral  character,  and 
this  could  be  best  estimated  from  an  examination 
of  his  life.  Hence  the  numerous  biographical 
works  arranged  in  chronological  order  and 
containing  short  accounts  of  the  principal 
(26) 


The  Birth  of  Grammar 

Traditionists  and  doctors  of  the  law,  with  the  in- 
dication of  their  tutors  and  their  pupils,  the  place 
of  their  birth  and  residence,  the  race  from  which 
they  sprung,  and  the  year  of  their  death.  This 
again  led  Moslim  critics  to  the  study  of  gene- 
alogy and  geography.  The  use  of  writing  existed 
in  Arabia  before  the  promulgation  of  Islamism, 
but  grammar  was  not  known  as  an  art  till  the 
difficulty  of  reciting  the  Koran  correctly  induced 
the  khalif  Ali  to  make  it  an  object  of  his  atten- 
tion. He  imposed  on  Abu  '1-Aswad  Ad-Duwali 
the  task  of  drawing  up  such  instructions  as  would 
enable  the  Moslims  to  read  their  sacred  book  and 
speak  their  language  without  making  gross 
faults." 

Another  version  of  the  beginnings  of  grammar 
eliminates  the  khalif  Ali  altogether.  The  story 
goes  that  as  Abu  '1-Aswad  Ad-Duwali  (603-88) 
entered  his  house  on  a  certain  day,  one  of  his 
daughters  said  to  him:  "Papa!  what  is  most 
beautiful  in  the  sky?" 

To  this  he  answered:     "Its  stars." 
But  she  replied:     "Papa,  I  do  not  mean  what 
is   the  most  beautiful  object   in   it;    I   was   only 
expressing  my  admiration  at  its  beauty." 

(27) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"In  tliat  case  you  must  say/'  he  observed, 
"  'How  beautiful  is  the  sky !'  "  ; 

Upon  thinking  this  over,  says  Ibn  Khallikan, 
Abu  '1-Aswad  invented  the  art  of  grammar. 

Abu  '1-Aswad  Ad-Duwali  thus  is  the  father  of 
this  book,  for  had  there  been  no  grammarians 
I  am  sure  that  Ibn  Khallikan  would  naver  have 
written  it.  Poetry  tickled  him;  but  grammar 
was  his  chief  delight,  as  it  was  the  chief  delight 
of  all  his  friends  and,  one  gathers,  of  all  Bagh- 
dad. Here  is  an  example:  "Al-Mamun,  having 
asked  Al-Yazidi  about  something,  received  from 
him  this  answer:  'No;  and  may  God  accept  my 
life  as  a  ransom  for  yours.  Commander  of  the 
Faithful !' 

"  'Well  said !'  exclaimed  the  khalif.  'Never 
was  the  word  and  better  placed  than  in  the  praise 
which  you  have  just  uttered.'  "  He  then  made 
him  a  present. 

We  get  an  insight  both  into  the  passion  for 
the  new  science  of  grammar  and  what  might  be 
called  the  physical  humour  of  the  East  in  this 
anecdote.  Abu  Safwan  Khalid  Ibn  Safwan,  a 
member  of  the  tribe  of  Tamim,  was  celebrated 
as  an  eloquent  speaker.  He  used  to  visit  Bilal 
(28) 


Bilal  the  Logical 

Ibn  Abi  Burda  and  converse  with  him,  but  his 
language  was  frequently  ungrammatical.  This 
grew  at  length  so  irksome  that  Bilal  said  to 
him :  "O  Khalid  !  you  make  me  narrations  fit  for 
khalifs  to  hear,  but  you  commit  as  many  faults 
against  grammar  as  the  women  who  carry  water 
in  the  streets." 

Stung  with  this  reproach,  Khalid  went  to  learn 
grammar  at  the  mosque,  and  some  time  after  lost 
his  sight.  From  that  period,  whenever  Bilal  rode 
by  in  state,  he  used  to  ask  who  it  was,  and  on 
being  answered  that  it  was  the  Emir,  he  would 
say:  "There  goes  a  summer-cloud,  soon  to  be 
dispelled." 

When  this  was  told  to  Bilal,  he  exclaimed: 
"By  Allah!  it  shall  not  be  dispelled  till  he  get 
a  full  shower  from  it;"  and  he  then  ordered  him 
a  whipping  of  two  hundred  strokes. 

When  books  were  so  few  and  most  learning 
came  through  the  ear,  memory  had  to  be  culti- 
vated. The  Traditionist,  Ibn  Rahwaih,  was  a 
Macaulay  in  his  way.  "I  know,"  he  used  to  say, 
"by  heart  seventy  thousand  traditions;  I  have 
read  one  himdred  thousand,  and  can  recollect  in 
what  work  each  is  to  be  found.     I  never  heard 

(29) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

anything  once  without  learning  it  by  heart,  nor 
learned  anything  by  heart  which  I  afterwards 
forgot." 

The  sittings  of  the  teacher,  Ibn  Al-Aarabi 
(767—846),  who  knew  by  heart  more  poetry  than 
any  man  ever  seen,  were  crowded  by  people 
anxious  for  instruction.  Abu  '1-Abbas  Thalah 
said:  "I  attended  the  sittings  held  by  Ibn  Al- 
Aarabi,  and  saw  there  upwards  of  one  hundred 
persons,  some  asking  him  questions  and  others 
reading  to  him;  he  answered  every  question  with- 
out consulting  a  book.  I  followed  his  lessons 
upwards  of  ten  years,  and  I  never  saw  him  with 
a  book  in  his  hand;  and  yet  he  dictated  to  his 
pupils   camel-loads   of  philological  information." 

The  grammarian  Moad  Ibn  Muslim  Al-Harra 
left  some  good  poetrj^,  which  he  gave  as  having 
been  uttered  by  genii,  demons  and  female  demons. 
The  caliph  Ar-Raschid  once  said  to  him:  "If 
thou  sawest  what  th^u  hast  described,  thou  hast 
seen  wonders;  if  not,  thou  hast  composed  a  nice 
piece  of  literature." 

An-Nahhas  the  grammarian  who,  on  being 
given  a  turban-cloth,  would  cut  it  into  three  from 
avarice,  met  his  death,  in  950,  in  an  unfortunate 
(30) 


A  Short  .Way  with  Reciters 

manner — being,  although  living  in  so  remote  a 
period,  mistaken  for  a  "profiteer."  I  quote  Ibn 
Khallikan's  words:  "He  had  seated  himself  on 
the  staircase  of  the  Nilometer,  by  the  side  of 
the  river,  which  was  then  on  the  increase,  and 
began  to  scan  some  verses  according  to  the  rules 
of  prosody,  when  a  common  fellow  who  heard 
him  said:  'This  man  is  pronouncing  a  charm  to 
prevent  the  overflow  of  the  Nile,  so  as  to  raise 
the  price  of  provisions.'  He  then  thrust  him 
with  his  foot  into  the  river  and  nothing  more 
v\'as  heard  of  him." 

Not  all  these  learned  men  were  philosophical, 
even  though  they  were  philosophers.  Abu  Nizar 
Ibn  Safi  Malik  An-Nuhat  assumed  the  title 
"Prince  of  Grammarians,"  but  if  any  other  name 
was  given  to  him  by  those  addressing  him  he 
would  fly  into  a  passion. 

The  old  fellows  could  be  superstitious  too. 
It  is  amusing  to  read  that  Abu  Obaida,  when 
repeating  passages  of  the  Koran  or  relating 
Traditions,  made  mistakes  designedly:  "For," 
said  he,  "grammar  brings  ill  luck." 


(31) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

V     The  First  Prosodist 

After  grammar,  prosody.  That  a  falling  apple 
should  lead  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  thoughts  to  the 
problem  of  gravity  is  not  so  remarkable,  but  that 
the  laws  of  prosody  should  result  from  an  equally 
capricious  occurrence  strikes  one  as  odd.  I 
mention  the  discoverer's  name  partly  that  school- 
boys may  remember  him,  or  not,  in  their  prayers. 
It  was  Al-Khalil  Ibn  Ahmad  who,  at  Mecca,  had 
besought  Allah  to  bestow  upon  him  a  science 
hitherto  unknown.  Allah  being  in  a  complaisant 
mood,  it  followed  that  not  long  after,  walking 
in  the  bazaar,  Al-Khalil  invented  prosody  as  he 
passed  a  coppersmith's  and  heard  him  hammer- 
ing a  basin. 

Once  started  on  his  career  as  an  inventor,  he 
continued;  but  a  later  discovery  cost  him  dear, 
for  having  resolved  on  devising  "a  method  of 
calculation  so  simple  that  any  servant  girl  who 
knew  it  could  go  to  a  shopkeeper's  without  in- 
curring the  least  possible  risk  of  being  deceived 
by  him  in  the  sum  she  would  have  to  pay,  he 
entered  the  mosque  with  his  thoughts  occupied 
on  the  subject,  and  he  there  struck  against  a 
(32) 


A  Nation  of  Poets 

pillar,  which  his  preoccupation  hindered  him 
from  perceiving.  The  violence  of  the  shock  threw 
him  on  his  back,  and  death  was  the  result." 

Al-Khalil  used  to  remark  that  a  man's  reason 
and  intelligence  reached  perfection  when  he  at- 
tained the  age  of  forty,  the  age  of  the  Prophet 
when  God  sent  him  forth  on  his  mission;  but 
that  they  undergo  alteration  and  diminution  when 
the  man  reaches  sixty,  the  age  in  which  God 
took  the  Prophet's  soul  to  himself.  He  said, 
again,  that  the  intelligence  is  clearest  at  the 
dawn  of  day. 

VI     A  Group  of  Poets 

No  matter  what  the  profession  or  calling  of 
these  Persians — whether  they  were  lawyers  or 
lawgivers,  grammarians  or  warriors — they  all,  or 
almost  all,  adored  verbal  felicity  and  tried  their 
hands  at  verse.  Poetry  may  be  called  the  gold 
dust  on  their  lives. 

Ibn  Nubata  the  poet  knew  how  to  say  thank 
you.  Saif  Ad-Dawlat  Ibn  Hamdan  having  given 
him  a  horse,  this  is  how  he  acknowledged  it:  0 
prince!   thou    wJiose    generous    qualities    are   the 

(33) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

offspring  of  thy  natural  disposition,  and  whose 
pleasing  aspect  is  the  emblem  of  thy  mind,  I  have 
received  the  present  which  thou  sentest  me,  a 
noble  steed' whose  portly  neck  seems  to  unite  the 
heavens  to  the  earth  on  which  he  treads.  Hast 
thou  then  conferred  a  government  upon  me,  since 
thou  sendest  me  a  spear  to  which  a  flowing  mane 
serves  as  a  banner?  We  take  possession  of  what 
thou  hast  conferred  and  find  it  to  be  a  horse  whose 
forehead  and  legs  are  marked  with  white,  and 
whose  body  is  so  black  that  a  single  hair  extract- 
ed from  that  colour  would  suffice  to  form  night's 
darkest  shades.  It  would  seem  that  the  morning 
had  struck  him  on  the  forehead  and  thus  made  it 
white,  for  which  reason  he  took  his  revenge  by 
wading  into  the  entrails  of  the  morning,  and  thus 
whitening  his  legs.  He  paces  slowly,  yet  one  of 
his  names  is  Lightning;  he  wears  a  veil,  having 
his  face  covered  with  white,  as  if  to  conceal  it, 
and  yet  beauty  itself  would  be  his  only  rival. 
Had  the  sun  and  the  inoon  a  portion  only  of  his 
ardour,  it  would  be  impossible  to  withstand  their 
heat.  The  eye  cannot  follow  his  movements,  un- 
less you  rein  him  in  and  restrain  his  impetuosity. 
The  glances  of  the  eye  cannot  seise  all  his  perfec- 
(34) 


An  Emir  on  Fleas 

tions,  unless  the  eye  he  led  away  captive  hy  his 
beauty  and  be  thus  enahled  to  follow  him. — I  like 
the  extravagance  of  that.  So  should  the  friend 
of  man  be  extolled. 

Emirs  did  not  disdain  to  be  poets.  Majd  Ad- 
Din  Al-Mubarak  Ibn  Munkid,  although  at  once 
"The  Sword  of  the  Empire"  and  "The  Glory  of 
Religion,"  wrote  poetry,  and  not  always  on  the 
most  exalted  themes.  Among  his  poems,  for 
example,  is  one  on  fleas,  in  which  those  insects, 
of  which  Emirs  should  know  nothing,  are  thus 
described:  A  race  whom  man  is  permitted  to 
slay,  and  who  profane  the  blood  of  the  pilgrim, 
even  in  the  sanctuary.  When  my  hand  sheds  their 
blood,  it  is  not  their  own,  but  mine,  which  is  shed. 
"It  is  thus,"  says  Ibn  Kliallikan  gravely,  "that 
these  two  verses  were  recited  and  given  as  his, 
by  Izz  Ad-Din  Abu  '1-Kasim  Abd  Allah  Ibn 
Abi  Ali  Al-Husain  Ibn  Abi  Muhammad  Abd 
Allah  Ibn  Al-Husain  Ibn  Rawaha  Ibn  Ibrahim 
Ibn  Abd  Allah  Ibn  Rawaha  Ibn  Obaid  Ibn 
Muhammad  Ibn  Abd  Allah  Ibn  Rawaha  Al- 
Ansari,  a  native  of  Hamat." 

Ibn  Khallikan's  greed  for  poetry  led  him,  as 
I  have  said,  not  only  to  quote  most  things  that 

(35) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

he  could  remember  of  each  poet,  but  to  cite  also 
the  poems  of  which  those  reminded  him.  Some- 
times he  quoted  before  he  was  sure  of  the  au- 
thor; but  it  made  no  difference.  Thus,  of  Al- 
Farra  the  grammarian  he  says:  "No  verses  have 
been  handed  down  as  his  excepting  the  following, 
which  were  given  by  Abu-Hanifa  Ad-Dinauri  on 
the  authority  of  Abu  Bakr  At-Tuwal:  Lord  of 
a  single  acre  of  ground,  you  have  nine  chamber- 
lains! You  sit  in  an  old  ruin  and  have  door-keep- 
ers who  exclude  visitors!  Never  did  I  hear  of  a 
door-keeper  in  a  ruined  dwelling!  Never  shall 
the  eyes  of  men  see  me  at  a  door  of  yours;  a  man 
like  me  is  not  made  to  support  repulses  from 
door-keepers."  Having  got  his  quotation  safely 
into  print,  Ibn  Khallikan  adds:  "I  since  discov- 
ered that  these  verses  are  attributed  to  Ibn  Musa 
'1-Makfuf.  God  knows  best!"  It  is  a  charming 
way  of  writing  biography.  The  grass  does  not 
grow  upon  the  weir  more  easily.  With  such  a 
rectifying  or  excusatory  phrase  as  "God  knows 
best"  one  can  hazard  all.  And  how  difficult  it  is 
to  be  the  first  to  say  anything! 

Here  is  a  poem  by  an  Emir's  vizier,  Al-Wazi 
Al-Maghribi:     /  shall  relate  to  you  my  adven- 
(36) 


Six  Singing  Generations 

ture;  and  adventures  are  of  various  hinds.  I  one 
night  changed  my  bed  and  was  abandoned  by  re- 
pose; tell  me  then  horv  I  shall  be  on  the  first 
night  Tvhich  I  pass  in  the  grave? 

Another  vizier,  Ibn  Al-Amid,  the  katib,  who 
lived  in  the  eleventh  century,  wrote  as  follows: 
Choose  your  friends  among  strangers,  and  take 
not  your  near  relations  into  favour.  Relations 
are  like  scorpions  or  even  more  noxious.  Asked 
which  was  the  worse  of  his  two  recurring  mala- 
dies, gout  or  colic,  he  replied:  "When  the  gout 
attacks  me  I  feel  as  if  I  were  between  the  jaws 
of  a  lion  devouring  me,  mouthful  by  mouthful; 
when  the  colic  visits  me,  I  would  willingly  ex- 
change it  for  the  gout." 

Poetry  in  those  days  ran  in  families.  The 
family  which  had  the  greatest  skill  in  the  art 
was  that  of  Hassan  Ibn  Abi  Hafsa,  for  it  pro- 
duced six  persons,  in  succession,  all  of  them 
poets.  These  were:  Said,  his  father  Abd  Ar- 
Rahman,  his  father  Hassan,  his  father,  Thabit, 
his  father  Al-Mundir,  and  his  father  Hizam. 
Abd  Ar-Rahman  began  very  young.  It  is  related 
that  having  been  stung  by  a  wasp,  he  went  cry- 
ing to  his  father,  who  asked  what  was  the  mat- 

(37) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

ter.  He  replied:  "I  have  been  stung  by  a  fly- 
ing thing,  dressed^  as  it  were,  in  a  double  cloak 
of  striped  cloth." 

"By  Allah!"  exclaimed  the  delighted  father, 
recognizing  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  "thou  hast 
there  pronounced  a  verse." 

The  family  of  Abi  Hafsa  came  next  to  that 
of  Hassan  in  poetical  gifts.  The  reason  was,  ac- 
cording to  one  statement,  that  they  could  "all 
touch  the  point  of  their  nose  with  their  tongue, 
and  this  denotes  a  talent  for  speaking  with  ele- 
gance and  precision."  "God  knows,"  Ibn  Khal- 
likan  adds,  "how  far  that  may  be  true !" 

It  was  Marwan  Ibn  Abi  Hafsa,  of  this  family, 
who  made  such  a  mistake  (in  a  poet  depending 
on  the  beneficence  of  the  exalted)  as  to  commit 
himself  to  the  sweeping  statement,  in  his  elegy 
on  the  death  of  Maan,  the  Emir,  that  patronage 
had  died  with  him.  "It  is  said,"  Ibn  Khallikan 
relates,  "that  Marwan,  after  composing  this 
elegy,  could  never  gain  anything  by  his  verses, 
for,  as  often  as  he  celebrated  the  praises  of  a 
khalif  or  of  any  other  person  less  elevated  in 
rank,  he  to  whom  the  poem  was  addressed  would 
say  to  him:  'Did  you  not  say,  in  your  famousr 
(38) 


An  Unlucky  Compliment 

elegy:  Whither  should  we  go,  since  Maan  Is 
dead?  Presents  have  ceased  and  are  not  to  be 
replaced?'  So  the  person  he  meant  to  praise 
would  not  give  him  anything  nor  even  listen  to 
his  poem." 

But  once — having  the  persistency  of  the  needy 
— Abi  Hafsa  scored.  The  story  goes  that,  enter- 
ing into  the  presence  of  the  khalif  Al-Mahdi 
with  a  number  of  other  poets,  he  recited  to  him 
a  panegyric. 

"Who  art  thou?"  said  the  khalif. 

"Thy  humble  poet,  Marwan,  the  son  of  Abi 
Hafsa." 

"Art  thou,"  said  the  khalif  with  great  presence 
of  mind,  remembering  the  poet's  useful  indis- 
cretion, "not  he  who  said:  Whither  should  we 
go,  since  Maan  is  dead?  and  yet  thou  hast  come 
to  ask  gifts  from  us !  Presents  have  ceased;  we 
have  nothing  for  thee.  Trail  him  out  by  the 
leg!" 

They  trailed  him  out  by  the  leg,  but,  twelve 
months  later,  Marwan  once  more  contrived  to 
gain  admittance  with  the  other  poets,  who,  at 
that  time,  were  allowed  to  enter  into  the  khalif's 
presence  once  a  year.     He  then  stood  before  him 

(39) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

and  recited  the  kasada  which  begins  thus:  A 
female  visitor  came  to  thee  by  nightj  salute  her 
fleeting  image. 

Al-Mahdi  at  first  listened  in  silence^  but  as  the 
poet  proceeded,  he  became  gradually  more  and 
more  agitated,  till  at  length  "he  rolled  on  the 
carpet   with   delight." 

He  then  asked  how  many  verses  were  in  the 
poem  and,  on  being  answered,  "One  hundred," 
he  ordered  the  author  a — present  of  one  hundred 
thousand  pieces  of  silver. 

The  poet  Ibn  Ar-Rumi  met  his  necessary  end 
with  composure.  Al-Kasim  Ibn  Obaid  Allah  Ibn 
Sulaiman  Ibn  Wahb,  the  vizier  of  Al-Motadid, 
dreading  to  incur  the  satirical  attacks  of  this 
writer  and  the  outbursts  of  his  malignant  tongue, 
suborned  a  person  called  Ibn  Firas,  who  gave 
him  a  poisoned  biscuit  whilst  he  was  sitting  in 
company  with  the  vizier. 

When  Ibn  Ar-Rumi  had  eaten  it,  he  perceived 
that  he  was  poisoned,  and  he  rose  to  withdraw; 
on  which  the  vizier  said  to  him:  "Where  are 
you  going?" 

"To  the  place,"  replied  Ibn  Ar-Rumi,  "where 
you  sent  me." 
(40) 


Palmy  Days  of  Patronage 

"Well/'  observed  the  vizier,  "you  will  present 
my  respects  to  my  father." 

"I  am  not  taking  the  road  to  hell,"  retorted 
the  poet. 

Another  poet,  Ibn  Sara  As-Shantarini,  falling 
upon  evil  days,  became  a  bookbinder.  As  such 
he  wrote  the  following  poem:  The  trade  of  a 
bookbinder  is  the  worst  of  all;  its  leaves  and  its 
fruits  are  nought  but  disappointment.  I  ma.y 
compare  him  that  follows  it  to  a  needle,  rvhich 
clothes  others  but  is  naked  itself! 

VII     Poetry's  Rewards 

The  Patron  was  a  very  real  factor  in  the  poeti- 
cal life  of  Baghdad. 

Here  is  a  story  told  by  the  poet  Abu  Bakr  Ibn 
Al-Allaf.  "I  had  passed  a  night  at  the  palace  of 
Al-Motadid  with  a  number  of  his  other  compan- 
ions, when  a  eunuch  came  to  us  and  said:  'The 
Commander  of  the  Faithful  sends  to  tell  you  that, 
after  you  withdrew,  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
sleep,  and  composed  this  verse:  When  the  vision 
of  my  mistress,  fleeting  through  the  shades  of 
night,  arvoke  me,  behold!  my  chamber  was  de- 
serted, and  far  off  was  the  place  of  our  meeting. 

(41) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

He  says  also^'  continued  the  eunuch,  'that  he  can- 
not complete  the  piece,  and  will  give  a  rich  pres- 
ent to  anyone  who  adds  to  it  a  second  couplet  to 
his  satisfaction.' 

"Those  who  were  present  failed  in  accomplish- 
ing the  task,  although  they  were  all  poets  of 
talent,  on  which  I/'  says  Abu  Bakr,  "hastened 
to  pronounce  the  following  verse:  On  this  I  said 
to  my  eyes:  'Sleep  again;  perhaps  the  vision,  in 
its  night  visits,  may  return  to  me!' " 

The  eunuch  then  retired,  bearing  Abu  Bakr's 
not  very  remarkable  effort  with  him,  and  having 
come  back,  said:  "The  Commander  of  the  Faith- 
ful declares  that  your  verse  is  perfect,  and  he  has 
ordered  you  a  present." 

Sometimes  the  passion  for  verse  enjoyed  and 
encouraged  by  these  courtly  gentlemen  seems  to 
reach  absurd  lengths.  Thus  Abu  Tammam  At- 
Tai,  the  poet,  once  recited  to  the  Emir  Abu 
Dolad  Al-Ijli  the  following  lines:  At  the  sight 
of  dwellings  abandoned  like  these,  and  places  of 
joyous  meetings  now  deserted,  our  tears,  long 
treasured  up,  were  shed  in  torrents! 

Abu  Dolad  so  admired  the  piece  that  he  gave 
the  poet  fifty  thousand  dirhems,  saying:  "By 
(42) 


The  Irrecoverable  Past 

AUali!  it  is  less  than  your  poem  is  worth;  and 
that  idea  is  only  surpassed  in  beauty  by  your 
elegy  on  the  death  of  Muhammad  Ibn  Ilamid 
At-Tusi." 

"Which/'  asked  Abu  Tammam,  "does  the  Emir 
mean?" 

"Why/'  said  Abu  Dolad,  "your  poem  com- 
mencing thus :  Norv  let  misfortune  do  its  7Vorst, 
and  time  inflict  its  evils!  There  is  no  excuse  for 
eyes  which  have  not  shed  their  tears.  I  wish,  by 
Allah !  that  this  elegy  had  been  composed  by 
you  on  me." 

"Nay!"  said  the  poet,  "may  I  and  my  family 
die  to  save  the  Emir,  and  may  I  leave  the  world 
before  you !" 

To  this  Abu  Dolad  replied:  "He  whose  death 
is  deplored  in  verses  like  those  is  immortal." 

Surely  the  palmy  days  of  poetry  have  passed 
away.  How  one  would  like  to  think  of  Mr. 
Kipling,  say,  being  summoned  to  Buckingham 
Palace  to  speak  a  piece  and  retiring  with  a 
cheque  for  £1025,  which  is  what  fifty  thousand 
dirhems  come  to. 

Gratitude,  even  when  it  is  excessive,  is  always 
a  good  theme.     In  the  following  case  the  pro- 

(43) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

portions  were  respected  with  more  fitness.  Al- 
Wazir  Al-Muhallabi  was  both  vizier  and  poet. 
He  was  also  a  very  poor  vegetarian,  and  once,  on 
a  journey,  being  unable  to  obtain  flesh-food,  he 
recited  extempore  these  verses :  Where  is  death 
sold,  that  I  may  buy  it?  for  this  life  is  devoid  of 
good.  Oh!  let  death,  whose  taste  to  me  is  srveet, 
come  and  free  me  from  a  detested  life!  When  I 
see  a  tomb  from  afar,  I  wish  to  be  its  inhabitant. 
May  the  Being  who  granteth  tranquillity  have 
compassion  on  the  soul  of  the  generous  man  who 
will  bestow  death,  as  a  charity,  upon  one  of  his 
brethren!  These  verses  being  heard  by  a  person 
who  was  travelling  in  the  same  caravan  with  him, 
and  whose  name  was  Abd  Allah  As-Sufi  (or,  by 
another  account,  Abu  '1-Hasan  Al-Askalani) ,  he. 
bought  for  Al-Muhallabi  a  dirhem's  worth  of 
meat,  cooked  it,  and  gave  it  to  him  to  eat. 

"They  then,"  says  Ibn,  "separated,  and  Al- 
Muhallabi  having  experienced  a  change  of  for- 
tune, became  vizier  to  Moizz  Ad-Dawlat  at  Bagh- 
dad, while  the  person  who  had  travelled  with  him 
and  purchased  the  meat  for  him  was  reduced  to 
poverty.  Having  then  learned  that  Al-Muhallabi 
was  a  vizier,  he  set  out  to  find  him  and  wrote  to 
(44) 


A  Vizier's  Gratitude 

him  these  lines:  Repeat  to  the  vizier,  for  whose 
life  I  rvould  sacrifice  my  own — repeat  to  him  the 
words  of  one  who  reminds  him  of  what  he  has  for- 
gotten. Do  you  remember  when,  in  a  life  of  mis- 
ery, you  said:  'Where  is  death  sold,  that  I  may 
buy  it?'  The  vizier  on  reading  the  note  recol- 
lected the  circumstance,  and,  moved  with  the  joy 
of  doing  a  generous  action,  he  ordered  seven  hun- 
dred dirhems  to  be  given  to  the  writer,  and  in- 
scribed these  words  on  the  paper :  The  similitude 
of  those  who  lay  out  their  substance  in  the  service 
of  God  is  as  a  grain  of  corn  which  has  produced 
seven  ears  and  in  every  ear  a  hundred  grains;  for 
God  giveth  manyfold  to  whom  He  pleaseth.  He 
then  prayed  God's  blessing  on  him,  and  clothed 
him  in  a  robe  of  honour,  and  appointed  him  to  a 
place  under  government,  so  that" — the  corollary 
seems  hardly  worth  adding — "he  might  live  in 
easy  circumstances." 

Poetry  was,  you  see,  worth  practising  in  Bagh- 
dad in  those  days ;  nor  had  the  poets  any  shame 
in  accepting  presents.  What  princes  liked  to 
give  it  was  not  for  poets  to  analyse  or  refuse.  Al- 
Moizz  Ibn  Badis,  sovereign  of  Ifrikya  and  the 
son  of  Badis,  was  a  patron  indeed.    "Poets,"  says 

(45) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

Ibn  Khallikan,  "were  loud  in  liis  praise,  literary 
men  courted  his  patronage,  and  all  v/ho  hoped 
for  gain  made  his  court  their  halting-place." 

To  the  modern  mind  he  was  too  easily  pleased, 
if  the  following  story  is  typical.  He  was  sitting, 
one  day,  in  his  saloon  with  a  number  of  literary 
men  about  him,  when,  noticing  a  lemon  shaped 
like  a  hand  and  fingers,  he  asked  them  to  extem- 
porize some  verses  on  that  subject.  Abd  Abu  Ali 
Al-Hasan  Ibn  Rashik  Al-Kairawani  at  once  re- 
cited the  following  lines:  A  lemon,  with  its  ex- 
tremities spread  out,  appears  before  all  eyes  with- 
out being  injured.  It  seems  to  hold  out  a  hand 
towards  the  Creator,  invoicing  long  life  to  the 
son  of  Badis. 

Al-Moizz  declared  the  verses  excellent  and 
showed  more  favour  to  the  author  than  to  any 
other  literary  man  in  the  assembly. 

Ready  wit  not  less  than  poetical  ingenuity 
could  always  win  the  respect  of  these  gentlemen, 
whose  cynical  cold-bloodedness  and  implacability 
were  ever  ready  to  be  diverted,  provided  that  the 
diversion  was  intellectual.  For  instance,  it  is  re- 
lated that  Al-Hajjaj  said  to  the  brother  of  Ka- 
tari:  "I  shall  surely  put  thee  to  death," 
46) 


Saif  Ad-Dawlat  the  Lavish 

"Why  so?"  replied  the  other. 

"On  account  of  thy  brother's  revolt/'  answered 
Al-Hajjaj. 

"But  I  have  a  letter  from  the  Commander  of 
the  Faithful,  ordering  thee  not  to  punish  me  for 
the  fault  of  my  brother." 

"Produce  it." 

"I   have  something  stronger  than  that." 

"What  is  it.?" 

"The  book  of  Almighty  God,  wherein  He  says: 
'And  no  burdened  soul  shall  bear  the  burden  of 
another.'  " 

Al-Hajjaj  was  struck  with  his  answer,  and 
gave  him  his  liberty. 

Among  the  lavish  patrons  of  poets  Saif  Ad- 
Dawlat  stands  high.  It  is  related  that  he  was 
one  day  giving  audience  in  the  city  of  Aleppo, 
and  poets  were  reciting  verses  in  his  praise,  when 
an  Arab  of  the  desert,  in  squalid  attire,  stepped 
forward  and  repeated  these  lines:  My  means  are 
spent,  hut  I  have  reached  my  journey's  end.  This  is 
the  glory  of  all  other  cities,  and  thou.  Emir!  art  the 
ornament  whereby  the  Arabs  surpass  the  rest  of 
men.  Fortune,  thy  slave,  has  rvronged  us;  and  to 
thee  we  have  recourse  against  thy  slave's  injustice. 

(47) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"By  Allah !"  exclaimed  the  prince,  "thou  hast 
done  it  admirably."  He  then  ordered  him  a 
present  of  two  hundred  gold  pieces. 

Abu  '1-Kasim  Othman  Ibn  Muhammad,  a  native 
of  Irak  and  kadi  of  Ain  Zerba,  relates  as  follows : 
"I  was  at  an  audience  given  by  Saif  Ad-Dawlat 
at  Aleppo,  when  the  kadi  Abu  Nasr  Muhammad 
Ibn  Muhammad  An-Naisapuri  went  up  to  him, 
and  having  drawn  an  empty  purse  and  a  roll  of 
paper  out  of  his  sleeve,  he  asked  and  obtained 
permission  to  recite  a  poem  which  was  written 
on  the  paper.  He  then  commenced  his  kasada, 
the  first  line  of  which  was :  Thy  wonted  generosity 
is  still  the  same;  thy  power  is  uncontrolled,  and 
thy  servant  stands  in  need  of  one  thousand  pieces 
of  silver. 

"When  the  poet  had  finished,  Saif  Ad-Dawlat 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  and  ordered  him  a 
thousand  pieces  of  gold,  which  were  immediately 
put  into  the  purse  he  had  brought  with  him." 

Here  is  a  delightful  account  of  the  relations 
between  a  crafty  poet  and  a  patron  who  was  not 
wholly  a  fool.  Abu  Dulaf  was  a  spirited,  noble, 
and  generous  chief,  highly  extolled  for  his  liber- 
ality, courage,  and  enterprise,  noted  for  his  vie- 
(48) 


The  Poet  and  the  Sisters 

tories  and  liis  beneficence.  Men  distinguished 
in  literature  and  the  sciences  derived  instruction 
from  his  discourse^  and  his  talent  was  conspicu- 
ous even  in  the  art  of  vocal  music.  His  praises 
were  celebrated  in  kasadas  of  the  greatest  beau- 
ty. Bakr  Ibn  An-Nattah  said  of  him:  0  thou 
who  pursuest  the  study  of  alchemy,  the  great  al- 
chemy consists  in  praising  the  son  of  Isa.  Was 
there  hut  one  dirhem  in  the  world,  thou  wouldst 
obtain  it  by  this  means. 

It  is  stated  that,  for  these  two  verses,  Abu 
Dulaf  gave  Ibn  An-Nattah  ten  thousand  dirhems. 
The  poet  then  ceased  visiting  him  for  some  time 
and  employed  the  money  in  the  purchase  of  a 
village  or  estate  on  the  river  Obolla.  He  after- 
wards went  to  see  him,  and  addressed  him  in 
these  words :  Thanks  to  thee,  I  have  purchased  an 
estate  on  the  Obolla,  crowned  by  a  pavilion  erect- 
ed in  marble.  It  has  a  sister  beside  it  which  is  now 
on  sale,  and  you  have  always  money  to  bestow. 

"How  much/'  said  Abu  Dulaf,  "is  the  price 
of  that  sister.''" 

The  poet  answered:     "Ten  thousand  dirhems." 

Abu  Dulaf  gave  him  the  money,  and  said: 
"Recollect  that  the  Obolla  is  a  large  river,  with 

(49) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

many  estates  situated  on  it,  and  that  each  of 
these  sisters  has  another  at  her  side;  so,  if  thou 
openest  such  a  door  as  that,  it  will  lead  to  a 
breach  between  us.  Be  content  with  what  thou 
hast  now  got,  and  let  this  be  a  point  agreed  on." 
The  poet  then  offered  up  prayers  for  his  wel- 
fare and  withdrew. 

VIII     A  Brave  Poet 

The  end  of  the  munificent  and  splendid  Ibn 
Bakiya  was  tragic,  and  it  leads  to  so  fine  and 
characteristic  a  story  that  I  must  tell  it  here: 
partly  in  Ibn  Khallikan's  words  and  partly  in 
my  own.  During  the  war  which  was  carried  on 
between  the  two  cousins  Izz  Ad-Dawlat  and  Adud 
Ad-Dawlat,  the  former  seized  on  Ibn  Bakiya  and, 
having  deprived  him  of  sight,  delivered  him  over 
to  Adud  Ad-Dawlat.  That  prince  caused  him  to 
be  paraded  about  with  a  hood  over  his  head,  and 
then  ordered  him  to  be  cast  to  the  elephants. 
Those  animals  killed  him,  and  his  body  was  ex- 
posed on  a  cross  at  the  gate  called  Bab  At-Tak, 
near  his  own  house. 

On  his  crucifixion,  an  adl  of  Baghdad,  called 
Abu  '1-Hasan  Muhammad  Ibn  Omar  Ibn  Yakub 
(50) 


The  Noble  Abu  '1-Hasan 

Al-Anbari,  deplored  his  fate  in  a  beautiful  poem, 
of  which  this  is  one  line :  /  never  saw  a  tree,  before 
this,  enabled  to  sustain  all  that  was  generous. 

Abu  '1-Hasan,  on  composing  his  elegy,  copied 
it  out  and  threw  it  into  one  of  the  streets  of 
Baghdad. 

It  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  literati,  who  passed 
it  one  to  another,  till  Adud  Ad-Dawlat  was  at 
length  informed  of  its  existence.  He  caused  it 
to  be  recited  in  his  presence,  and,  struck  with 
admiration  at  its  beauty,  he  exclaimed:  "O  that 
I  were  the  person  crucified,  not  he !  Let  the 
poet  be  brought  to  me !" 

During  a  whole  year  strict  search  was  made 
for  the  author,  and  the  Sahib  Ibn  Abbad  who 
was  then  at  Rai,  being  informed  of  the  circum- 
stance, wrote  out  a  letter  of  protection  in  favour 
of  the  poet.  When  Abu  '1-Hasan  heard  of  this, 
he  went  to  the  court  of  the  Sahib  and  was  asked 
by  him  if  it  was  he  who  had  composed  the  verses. 
He  replied  in  the  affirmative,  on  which  the  Sahib 
expressed  the  desire  to  hear  them  from  his  own 
mouth.  When  Abu  '1-Hasan  came  to  the  verse,  / 
never  saw  a  tree,  before  this,  enabled  to  sustain 
all  that  mas  generous,  the  Sahib  rose  up  and  em- 

(51) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

braced  him,  kissing  him  on  the  lips ;  he  then  sent 
him  to  Adud  Ad-Dawlat. 

When  he  appeared  before  Adud  Ad-Dawlat, 
that  prince  said  to  him:  "What  motive  could 
have  induced  thee  to  compose  an  elegy  on  the 
death  of  my  enemy?" 

Abu  '1-Hasan  replied:  "Former  obligations 
and  favours  granted  long  since;  my  heart  there- 
fore overflowed  with  sorrow,  and  I  lamented  his 
fate." 

There  were  wax-lights  burning,  at  the  time, 
before  the  prince,  and  this  led  him  to  say  to  the 
poet:  "Canst  thou  recollect  any  verses  on  wax- 
lights  ?"  and  to  this  the  other  replied  by  the  fol- 
lowing lines :  The  wax-lights,  showing  their  ends 
tipped  with  fire,  seemed  like  the  fingers  of  thy 
trembling  foes,  humbly  stretched  forth  to  implore 
thy  mercy. 

On  hearing  these  verses,  Adud  Ad-Dawlat 
clothed  him  in  a  pelisse  of  honour  and  bestowed 
on  him  a  horse  and  a  bag  of  money. 

IX     A  Western  Interlude 

That  beautiful  phrase  of  the  poet  on  his  cruci- 
fied hero — I  never  saw  a  tree,  before  this,  enabled 
(52) 


The  Brothers  Bonvin 

to  sustain  all  that  was  generous — has  an  oddlr 
close  parallel,  which  I  am  tempted  to  record 
here:  a  phrase,  not  less  beautiful,  used  by  a 
modern  Frenchman,  also  of  a  dead  man  and  a 
tree.  It  occurs  in  a  letter  written  b}''  Fran9ois 
Bonvin  on  the  death  of  his  brother,  Leon,  the 
painter  of  flowers.  Leon  Bonvin's  work  is  little 
known  and  there  is  little  of  it,  but  those  who 
possess  examples  treasure  them  like  black  pearls. 
Fran9ois  Bonvin,  who  is  represented  in  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  in  the  modern  French  and  Dutch 
room,  by  a  scene  of  cattle  painted  with  great  de- 
cision and  confidence  and  breadth,  and  who  died 
in  1888,  was  the  son  of  a  policeman  at  Vaugiraud, 
on  the  outskirts  of  Paris ;  an  old  soldier  who  di- 
vided his  time  between  protecting  the  property  of 
the  market  gardeners  and  constructing  rockeries 
for  poor  people's  windows.  Another,  and  the 
youngest  son,  was  Leon,  who  after  a  shy  and 
lonely  boyhood  and  youth,  under  the  tyranny  of 
his  father,  which  was  mitigated  by  rambles  in  the 
neighbouring  forest  of  Meudon,  gathering  flowers 
and  painting  them  under  his  brother's  encourage- 
ment with  a  felicity  and  fidelity  that  have  not 
been  surpassed,  fell,  when  still  quite  young,  into 

(53) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

the  hands  of  a  shrewish  vulgar  wife^  and  with 
her  opened  a  tavern.  No  couple  could  be  more 
ill-assorted  than  this  gentle  creature,  full  of 
poetry  and  feeling,  whose  one  ambition  was  to  set 
exquisitely  on  paper  the  blossoms  which  gave  him 
pleasure,  and  the  noisy,  bustling,  angry  woman 
whom  he  had  married. 

The  union  and  the  commercial  venture  were 
alike  disastrous;  unhappiness  was  accompanied 
by  poverty,  and  after  a  short  period  of  depression 
the  imfortunate  artist,  early  one  morning,  in  his 
thirty-third  year,  wandered  into  the  forest  of 
Meudon,  where  the  world  had  once  spread  so 
happily  before  his  eyes,  and  hanged  himself. 

All  this  happened  in  the  middle  years  of  the 
last  century,  when  the  same  revival  of  nature- 
worship  was  inspiring  painters  in  Fance  as  had, 
fifty  years  earlier,  flushed  Wordsworth's  poetry, 
and  such  famous  and  more  fortunate  contem- 
poraries of  Leon  Bonvin  as  Corot  and  Rousseau 
and  Millet  and  Daubigny  and  Jacque  and  Dupre 
were  painting  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau. 
Theirs  to  succeed;  poor  Leon  found  life  too  hard, 
and  was  dead  when  still  far  from  his  prime. 

And  what  of  the  notable  phrase?  It  is  one 
(54) 


The  Crown  of  Gentleness 

that  I  know  I  shall  never  forget,  one  that  will 
remain  indissolubly  linked  to  the  name  of  Bonvin, 
whether  it  is  Leon  who  inspired  it  or  Fran9ois 
who  penned  it  and  who  had  been  so  useful  in 
providing  his  brother  with  the  materials  for  his 
one  absorbing  pleasure  and  had  always  exhorted 
him  to  "do  everything  from  nature."  Writing 
to  some  one  of  influence  in  Paris,  Fran9ois  told 
the  story  of  his  brother's  death.  In  a  postscript 
he  added  the  information  that  the  weight  of 
Leon's  body  had  broken  a  branch  of  the  tree. 
Then  came  the  words :  "This  is  the  only  damage 
he  ever  did." 

Could  there  be  a  more  beautiful  epitaph  or 
a  more  poignant  commentary  on  a  world  askew? 

X     Persian  Humour 

Persian  humour  is  a  stealthier  thing  than  Eng- 
lish humour.  We  like  to  laugh;  the  sudden  sur- 
prise pleases  us.  But  these  old  ruminative  ob- 
servers of  life,  even  if  they  rapped  out  a  sar- 
casm now  and  then,  were  normally  happiest  when 
their  fancy  was  playing  quietlj'-  around  an  idea: 
fetching  similes    for   it  from  every   quarter  and 

(55) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

accumulating  extravagances.  Thus:  "It  is  re- 
lated by  Abu  l-Khattab  Ibn  Aun  Al-Hariri,  the 
poet  and  grammarian^  that  he  went  one  day  to 
visit  An-Nami,  and  found  him  seated.  His  hair 
was  white  like  the  Thaghama  when  in  flower^ 
but  one  single  black  hair  still  remained 

"  'Sir !'  said  Ibn  Aun,  'there  is  a  black  hair  in 
your  head.' 

"  'Yes/  replied  An-Nami,  'it  is  the  sole  rem- 
nant of  my  youth,  and  I  am  pleased  with  it;  I 
have  even  written  verses  on  it.' 

"Then,  at  the  request  of  Ibn  Aun,  he  recited 
these  lines:  In  that  head  a  single  hair  still  ap- 
peared, preserving  its  hlacltness ;  'twas  a  sight 
which  rejoiced  the  eyes  of  my  friends.  I  said  to 
my  white  hairs,  which  had  put  it  in  fear:  '/  im- 
plore you!  respect  it  as  a  stranger.  A  dark  Afri- 
can spouse  will  not  long  remain  in  the  house 
where  the  second  wife  is  white  of  shin.' " 

One  of  the  worthiest  representatives  of  the 
humourists  of  the  book  is  Abu  Dulama,  a  black 
Abyssinian,  whose  wits  never  failed  him.  Here 
is  the  poem  which  he  recited  when  ordered  by 
Huh,  the  governor  of  Basra,  to  attack  one  of  the 
enemy  single-handed:  I  fly  to  Ruh  for  refuge; 
(56) 


Cowardice  with  Honour 

let  him  not  send  me  to  a  combat  in  which  I  shall 
bring  disgrace  upon  the  tribe  of  Asad.  Your  fa- 
ther Al-Mtihallab  left  you  as  a  legacy  the  love  of 
death;  but  such  a  legacy  as  that  I  have  inherited 
from  none.  And  this  I  hnow  well,  that  the  act  of 
drawing  near  to  enemies  produces  a  separation  be- 
tween souls  and  bodies, 

Ruh  positively  declared,  however,  that  Abu 
Dulama  should  go  forth  and  fight,  enforcing  the 
command  with  the  pertinent  question,  "Why  do 
you  receive  pay  from  the  sultan?" 

"To  fight  for  him/'  replied  Abu. 

"Then,"  said  Ruh,  "why  not  go  forth  and  at- 
tack that  enemy  of  God?" 

"If  I  go  forth  to  him,  O  Emir,"  replied  the 
Abyssinian,  "I  shall  be  sent  to  join  those  who 
are  dead  and  gone;  and  the  condition  I  made 
with  the  sultan  was,  to  fight  for  him,  but  not  to 
die  for  him." 

Another  wit,  Osama  Ibn  Murshid,  having  had 
a  tooth  drawn,  produced  the  following  verses, 
either  at  the  time,  for  the  delectation  of  the  den- 
tist, or  afterwards,  when  seated  among  his 
friends :  I  had  a  companion  of  whom  I  was  never 
tired,  who  suffered  in  my  service,  and  laboured 

(57) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

with  assiduity;  whilst  we  were  together  I  never 
saw  him;  and  when  he  appeared  before  my  eyes, 
we  had  parted  for  ever. 

This  is  how  Osama  wrote  when  the  house  of 
a  miser  was  burnt  down:  See  how  the  progress 
of  time  constrains  us  to  acknowledge  that  there  is 
a  destiny.  Ibn  Talib  never  lit  a  fire  in  his  house, 
through  avarice,  yet  by  fire  it  was  destroyed. 

"One  thing/'  says  Ibn  Khallikan,  in  the  notice 
of  this  satirist,  "brings  on  another."  He  then 
proceeds:  "Abu  '1-Hasan  Yahya  Abd  Al-Azim 
Al-Misri,  surnamed  Al-Jazzar,  recited  to  me  the 
following  verses  which  he  had  composed  on  an- 
other literary  man  at  Cairo,  far  advanced  in  age, 
who,  being  attacked  by  a  cutaneous  eruption, 
anointed  himself  with  sulphur:  0,  learned  mas- 
ter, hearken  to  the  demand  of  a  friend  devoid  of 
sarcasm:  thou  art  old,  and  of  course  art  near  to 
the  fire  of  hell;  why  then  anoint  thyself  with 
sulphur?" 

As  a  further  quite  unnecessary  proof  of  the 
antiquity  of  jests  which  we  think  new,  I  might 
append  to  this  excellent  sarcasm  by  a  friend  de- 
void of  sarcasm  the  story,  often  now  told,  of  the 
rival  chemists  in  a  provincial  town,  one  of  whom 
(58) 


The  West  Intervenes 

was  old-fashioned  and  costly,  and  the  other  new 
and  cheap.  To  the  costly  one,  who  had  asked  too 
much  for  sulphur,  a  customer  remarked  that  if 
he  went  to  the  new  shop  opposite  he  could  get  it 
for  fourpence;  which  brought  from  the  old-fash- 
ioned chemist,  weary  of  this  competition,  the 
admirable  retort  that  if  he  went  still  farther,  to 
a  certain  place,  he  would  get  it  for  nothing. 

East  and  West  join  hands  again.  When  I  was 
a  boy  living  in  a  town  by  the  sea,  one  of  ray 
heroes  in  real  life — whom  I  never  knew,  but 
admired  fearfully  from  a  distance — was  a  fa- 
mous stockbroker,  whose  splendid  name  I  could 
give  if  I  chose.  One  of  his  many  mansions  was 
here,  and  I  used  to  see  him  often  as  he  man- 
aged the  finest  pair  of  horses  on  the  south  coast, 
which  he  drove  in  a  phaeton  with  red  wheels,  al- 
ways smoking  a  cigar  as  he  did  so.  Many  were 
the  stories  told  of  his  princely  Victor  Radnor-ish 
ways,  one  of  which  credited  him  with  a  private 
compartment  on  the  train,  into  which  his  guests 
walked  without  a  ticket — a  magnificent  idea ! — 
and  another  stated  that  he  bought  his  trousers 
a  hundred  pairs  at  a  time.  And  then  I  open 
this  book  and  read  that  Barjawan,  an  Ethiopian 

(59) 


'A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

eunuch,  after  being  stabbed  to  death  by  the 
prince's  umbrella-bearer,  was  found  to  possess  a 
thousand  pairs  of  trousers. 

Not  a  little  of  the  humorous  effect  of  these 
Persian  sayings  comes  from  their  dry  frankness. 
For  example:  Ibn  Omair,  a  trustworthy  tradi- 
tionist,  when,  once,  he  was  ill,  and  a  person  sent 
his  excuses  for  not  going  to  visit  him,  answered: 
"I  cannot  reproach  a  person  for  not  visiting  me, 
whom  I  mj^self  should  not  go  to  visit  were  he 
sick."  Modern  would-be  wits  might  take  the 
hint;  for  with  candour  so  scarce,  and  self-criti- 
cism usually  ending  in  a  verdict  of  complete  in- 
nocence, the  blurted  naked  truth,  not  unaccom- 
panied by  a  sidelong  thrust  at  the  speaker's  own 
fallibility,  would  always  produce  the  required 
laugh. 

XI     The  Satirists 

Al-Yazidi,  a  story  of  whom  I  quoted  above, 
was  a  teacher  of  Koranic  readings,  a  grammarian 
and  a  philologer,  who  taught  in  Baghdad  in  the 
ninth  century.  He  was  also  a  famous  satirist; 
but  satire  seems  to  have  been  easier  then  than 
now.      So   at  least    I   gather   from  the   epigram 


"Most  Sarcastic  ]Men" 

which  Al-Yazidi  wrote  upon  Al-Asmai  Al-Bahili: 
You  who  pretend  to  draw  your  origin  from  Asma, 
tell  me  how  you  are  connected  with  that  noble 
race.  Are  you  not  a  man  whose  genealogy,  if 
verified,  proves  that  you  descend  from  Bahila? 
"This  last  verse,"  said  Ibn  Al-Munajjim,  "is  one 
of  the  most  satirical  which  have  been  composed 
by  the  later  poets." 

I  need  hardly  say  that  Ibn  Khallikan,  with  his 
eagle  eye  and  fierce  memory,  does  not  let  the 
originality  of  this  pass  unchallenged.  The  idea, 
he  tells  us,  is  borrowed  from  the  verse  in  which 
Hammad  Ajrad  attacked  Bashshar,  the  son  of 
Burd.  I  like  its  directness.  You  call  yourself 
the  son  of  Burd,  though  you  are  the  son  of  an- 
other man.  Or,  grant  that  Burd  married  your 
mother,  who  was  Burd? 

In  sarcasms  Al-Yazidi  was  hard  pressed  by 
Abu  Obaida,  who  was  a  very  ^Ir.  Brown  {vide 
Bret  Harte)  in  being  of  "so  sarcastic  a  humour 
that  every  one  in  Basra  who  had  a  reputation 
to  maintain  was  obliged  to  flatter  him."  When 
dining  once  with  Musa  Ibn  Ar-Rahman  Al-Hilali, 
one  of  the  pages  spilled  some  gravy  on  the  skirt 
of  Abu  Obaida's  cloak. 

(61) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"Some  gravy  has  fallen  on  your  cloak/'  said 
Musa,  "but  I  shall  give  you  ten  others  in  place 
of  it." 

"Nay !"  replied  Abu  Obaida,  "do  not  mind ! 
Your  gravy  can  do  no  harm." 

Another  of  Al-Yazidi's  satirical  efforts,  which 
has  no  forerunner  in  Ibn  Khallikan's  recollection, 
is  this,  levelled  at  another  mean  acquaintance; 
meanness,  indeed,  being  one  of  the  unpardonable 
offences — especially  in  the  eyes  of  poets  who 
lived  on  patronage:  Be  careful  not  to  lose  the 
friendship  of  Abu  'l-Mukatil  when  you  approach 
to  partake  of  his  meal.  Breaking  his  crumpet  is 
for  him  as  bad  as  breaking  one  of  his  limbs.  His 
guests  fast  against  their  will,  and  without  mean- 
ing to  obtain  the  spiritual  reward  fvhich  is  grant- 
ed to  fasting. 

Apropos  of  sarcasm,  the  Merwanide  Omaiyide, 
who  reigned  in  Spain,  received  from  Nizar,  the 
sovereign  of  Egypt,  an  insulting  and  satirical  let- 
ter, to  which  he  replied  in  these  terms:  "You 
satirize  us  because  you  have  heard  of  us.  Had 
we  ever  heard  of  you,  we  should  make  you  a 
reply." 

(62) 


A  Blind  Sardonyx 

None  of  the  sarcastic  wits  are  more  pointed 
than  the  blind  mawla  Abu  '1-Aina  (806-96), 
whose  tongue  was  venomously  barbed,  and  who, 
like  other  blind  men,  often  used  his  malady  as  a 
protection  when  his  satire  had  been  excessive. 
Viziers  were  his  favourite  butts.  Being  one  day 
in  the  society  of  one  of  them,  the  conversation 
turned  on  the  history  of  the  Barmekides  and  their 
generosity,  on  which  the  vizier  said  to  Abu 
'1-Aina,  who  had  just  made  a  high  eulogium 
of  that  family  for  their  liberality  and  bounty: 
"You  have  praised  them  and  their  quali- 
ties too  much;  all  this  is  a  mere  fabrication 
of  book-makers  and  a  fable  imagined  by  au- 
thors." 

Abu  '1-Aina  immediately  replied:  "And  why 
then  do  book-makers  not  relate  such  fables  of 
you,  O  vizier?" 

Again,  having  gone  one  day  to  the  door  of 
Said  Ibn  Makhlad  and  asked  permission  to  enter, 
Abu  '1-Aina  was  told  that  the  vizier  was  engaged 
in  prayer.  "Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  "there  is  a  pleas- 
ure in  novelty." 

"I  am  told,"  said  a  khalif  to  him,  "that  thou 
hast  an  evil  tongue." 

(63) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"Commander  of  the  Faithful!"  replied  Abu 
'1-Aina,  "the  Almighty  himself  has  spoken  jDraise 
and  satire/'  and  he  then  quoted  this  poem:  If  I 
praise  not  the  honest  man  and  revile  not  the  sor- 
did, the  despicable,  and  the  base,  why  should  I 
have  the  power  of  saying,  "That  is  good  and  this 
is  bad"?  And  why  should  God  have  opened 
men's  ears  and  my  mouth? 

Having  one  day  a  dispute  with  a  descendant 
of  the  Prophet,  his  adversary  said  to  Abu 
'1-Aina:  "You  attack  me,  and  yet  you  say  in 
your  prayers :  'Almighty  God !  bless  Muhammad 
and  the  family  of  Muhammad.'  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Abu  '1-Aina,  "but  I  add — 'who 
are  virtuous  and  pur6.'  " 

Here  is  one  of  the  stories  which  Abu  '1-Aina 
used  to  tell.  "I  was  one  day  sitting  with  Abu 
'1-Jahm,  when  a  man  came  in  and  said  to  him: 
'You  made  me  a  promise,  and  it  depends  on  your 
kindness  to  fulfil  it.' 

"Abu  '1-Jahm  answered  that  he  did  not  recol- 
lect it,  and  the  other  replied:  'If  you  do  not  recol- 
lect it,  'tis  because  the  persons  like  me  to  whom 
you  make  promises  are  numerous;  and  if  I  re- 
member it,  'tis  because  the  persons  like  you  to 
(64) 


The  Blind  Poet  of  Egypt 

whom  I  may  confidently  address  a  request  are 
few.'  : 

"  'Well  said !  Blessings  on  your  father !'  ex- 
claimed Abu  '1-Jahra,  and  the  promise  was  im- 
mediately  fulfilled." 

That  blind  man  should  be  self-protective  is, 
of  course,  natural,  and  the  East  has  always  been 
rich  in  them.  "The  learned  MuwafFak  Ad-Din 
Muzaffar,  the  blind  poet  of  Egypt,  having  gone 
to  visit  Al-Kadi  As-Said  Ibn  Sana  Al-Mulk,  the 
latter  said  to  him:  'Learned  scholar!  I  have 
composed  the  first  hemistich  of  a  verse,  but 
cannot  finish  it,  although  it  has  occupied  my 
mind  for  some  days.' 

"Muzaffar  asked  to  hear  what  he  had  composed, 
and  the  other  recited  as  follows:  The  whiteness 
of  my  heard  proceeds  from  the  blackness  of  her 
ringlets — 

"On  hearing  these  words,  Muzaffar  replied 
that  he  had  found  their  completion,  and  recited  as 
follows: — even  as  the  flame  with  which  I  burn 
for  her  acquired  its  intensity  from  her  pome- 
granate-flower \Jier  rosy  cheeksj. 

"As-Said  approved  of  the  addition,  and  com- 
menced another  verse  on  the   same   model;   but 

(65) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

MuzaflPar  said  to  himself.  'I  must  rise  and  be 
off,  or  else  he  will  make  the  entire  piece  at  the 
expense  of  my  wits.'  " 

XII     An  Early  Chess  Champion 

Much  has  been  written  of  the  origin  of  chess, 
and  many  countries  contend  for  the  honour  of 
its  inception.  According  to  my  encyclopaedia, 
China,  India,  Persia,  and  Egypt  have  each  a 
claim,  but  it  is  probable  that  the  game  existed, 
in  some  form  or  other,  before  history.  The  the- 
ory is  that  the  Arabs  introduced  it  to  Europe 
in  the  eighth  century.  Thus  the  cautious  en- 
cyclopaedia; but  Ibn  Khallikan  has  no  such  hesi- 
tancy. From  him  we  get  names  and  dates.  Ibn 
Khallikan  giv^es  the  credit  boldly  to  one  Sissah, 
who,  says  he,  "imagined  the  game  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  King  Shihram."  Whether  Sissah  built 
it  out  of  a  clear  sky,  or  had  foundations  on  which 
to  erect,  is  not  stated.  Anyway,  the  pastime  was 
a  complete  success.  "It  is  said  that,  when  Sissah 
invented  the  game  of  chess  and  presented  it  to 
Shihram,  the  latter  was  struck  with  admiration 
and  filled  with  joy;  he  ordered  chess-boards  to 
i66) 


An  Inventor's  Reward 

be  placed  in  the  temples,  and  considered  that 
game  as  the  best  thing  that  could  be  learned,  in- 
asmuch as  it  served  as  an  introduction  to  the  art 
of  war,  as  an  honour  to  religion  and  the  world, 
and  as  the  foundation  of  all  justice. 

"He  manifested  also  his  gratitude  and  satis- 
faction for  the  favour  which  Heaven  had  granted 
him  in  illustrating  his  reign  by  such  an  invention, 
and  he  said  to  Sissah,  'Ask  me  for  whatever  you 
desire.' 

"  'I  then  demand,'  replied  Sissah,  'that  a  grain 
of  wheat  be  placed  in  the  first  square  of  the 
chess-board,  two  in  the  second,  and  that  the  num- 
ber of  grains  be  progressively  doubled  till  the 
last  square  is  attained:  whatever  this  quantity 
may  be,  I  ask  you  to  bestow  it  on  me.' 

"The  king,  who  meant  to  make  him  a  present 
of  something  considerable,  exclaimed  that  such  a 
recompense  would  be  too  little,  and  reproached 
Sissah  for  asking  for  so  inadequate  a  reward. 

"Sissah  declared  that  he  desired  nothing  but 
what  he  had  mentioned,  and,  heedless  of  the 
king's  remonstrances,  he  persisted  in  his  demand. 

"The  king,  at  length,  consented,  and  ordered 
that  quantity  of  wheat  to  be  given  him.     When 

(67) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

the  chiefs  of  the  government  office  received 
orders  to  that  effect,  they  calculated  the 
amount,  and  answered  that  they  did  not  possess 
near  so  much  wheat  as  was  required. 

"These  words  were  reported  to  the  king,  and 
he,  being  unable  to  credit  them,  ordered  the 
chiefs  to  be  brought  before  him.  Having  ques- 
tioned them  on  the  subject,  they  replied  that  all 
the  wheat  in  the  world  would  be  insufficient  to 
make  up  the  quantity.  He  ordered  them  to  prove 
what  they  said,  and,  by  a  series  of  multiplications 
and  reckonings,  they  demonstrated  to  him  that 
such  was  the  fact. 

"On  this,  the  king  said  to  Sissah:  'Your  in- 
genuity in  imagining  such  a  request  is  yet  more 
admirable  than  your  talent  in  inventing  the  game 
of  chess.'  " 

Iban  Khallikan  was  at  pains  to  investigate  the 
matter.  Having,  he  says,  "met  one  of  the  ac- 
coxmtants  employed  at  Alexandria,  I  received 
from  him  a  demonstration  which  convinced  me 
that  the  declaration  was  true.  He  placed  before 
me  a  sheet  of  paper  in  which  he  had  doubled  the 
numbers  up  to  the  sixteenth  square,  and  obtained 
thirty-two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sixty- 
(68) 


An  Arithmetical  Nightmare 

eight  grains.  'Now/  said  he,  'let  us  consider 
this  quantity  to  be  the  contents  of  a  pint  meas- 
ure, and  this  I  know  by  experiment  to  be  true' — 
these  are  the  accountant's  words,  so  let  him  bear 
the  responsibility — 'then  let  the  pint  be  doubled 
in  the  seventeenth  square,  and  so  on  progressive- 
ly. In  the  twentieth  square  it  will  become  a 
waiba  (peck),  the  waibas  will  then  become  an 
irdabb  (bushel),  and  in  the  fortieth  square  we 
shall  have  one  hundred  and  seventy-four  thou- 
sand seven  hundred  and  sixty-two  irdabbs.  Let 
us  suppose  this  to  be  the  contents  of  a  corn 
store,  and  no  corn  store  contains  more  than  that; 
then  in  the  fiftieth  square  we  shall  have  the  con- 
tents of  one  thousand  and  twenty-four  stores; 
suppose  these  to  be  situated  in  one  city — and  no 
city  can  have  more  than  that  number  of  stores  or 
even  so  many — we  shall  then  find  that  the  sixty- 
fourth  and  last  square  gives  sixteen  thousand 
three  hundred  and  eighty-four  cities.  Now,  you 
know  that  there  is  not  in  the  world  a  greater  num- 
ber of  cities  than  that,  for  geometry  informs  us 
that  the  circumference  of  the  globe  is  eight  thou- 
sand parasangs;  so  that,  if  the  end  of  a  cord 
were  laid  on  any  part  of  the  earth,  and  the  cord 

(69) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

passed  round  it  till  both  ends  met,  we  should  find 
the  length  of  the  cord  to  be  twenty-four  thousand 
miles,  which  is  equal  to  eight  thousand  para- 
sangs.'  This  demonstration  is  decisive  and  in- 
dubitable." 

Of  Sissah  I  know  no  more,  except  that  he  was 
from  India  and  that  his  game  became  popular. 
Up  to  the  time  of  Ibn  Khallikan,  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  its  best  player  was  one  As-Suli,  famous 
as  an  author  and  a  convivialist,  who  died  one 
hundred  and  twenty  years  before  the  Norman 
Conquest.  "To  play  like  As-Suli"  was  indeed  a 
proverb.  Among  this  proficient's  friends  was 
his  pupil,  the  khalif  Ar-Radi,  who  had  the  great- 
est admiration  for  As-Suli's  genius.  One  day, 
for  instance,  walking  with  some  boon  compan- 
ions through  a  garden  filled  with  beautiful  flow- 
ers, Ar-Radi  asked  them  if  they  ever  saw  a  finer 
sight.  To  this  they  replied,  speaking  as  wise 
men  speak  to  autocratic  rulers,  that  nothing  on 
earth  could  surpass  it. 

The  retort  of  the  khalif  must  have  given  them 

the   surprise   of  their  lives.      "You   are   wrong," 

said  he:     "As-Suli's  manner  of  playing  chess  is 

yet  a   finer  sight,   and   surpasses   all  you  could 

(70) 


The  Finest  Sights 

describe!"  So  might  we  now  refer  to  Hobbs 
on  his  day  at  the  Oval,  on  a  hard  wicket,  against 
fast  bowling,  with  Surrey  partisans  standing  four 
deep  behind  the  seats,  or  to  Stevenson  nursing 
the  balls  from  the  middle  pocket  to  the  top  left- 
hand  pocket  and  then  across  to  the  right. 

One  more  anecdote  of  the  Persian  Steinitz, 
and  I  have  done.  I  tell  it  because  it  rounds  oiF 
this  interlude  with  some  symmetry  by  bringing 
us  back  to  my  own  consultation  of  the  encyclo- 
paedia at  the  beginning  of  it.  As-Suli  had  a 
famous  library  of  books  in  which  he  had  jotted 
down  the  fruits  of  his  various  reading.  When 
asked  a  question  on  any  subject,  instead  of  an- 
swering it  he  would  tell  his  boy  to  bring  such 
and  such  a  volume  in  which  the  matter  at  issue 
was  treated.  This  trait  led  to  an  epigram  being 
written  upon  him  by  a  rival  scholar,  Abu  Said, 
to  the  effect  that  "of  all  men  As-Suli  possessed 
most  learning — in  his  library."  There  are  still 
men  learned  on  the  same  terms,  but,  nowadays, 
we  do  not  have  to  collect  the  information  for 
ourselves  but  go  to  The  Times  and  Messrs.  Cham- 
bers for  it. 

(71) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

XIII     Courtesy  and  Justice 

Harun  Ar-Raschid  passing  near  Manbij  with 
Abd  Al-Malik  Ibn  Salih,  who  was  the  most  ele- 
gant speaker  of  all  the  surviving  descendants  of 
Al-Abbas,  observed  a  well-built  country-seat  and 
a  garden  full  of  trees  covered  with  fruit,  and 
asked  to  whom  that  property  belonged. 

Abd  Al-Malik  replied:  "To  you.  Commander 
of  the  Faithful!  and  then  to  me." 

This  Abd  Al-Malik  was  so  famous  as  a  story- 
teller that  a  wise  man  said  of  him:  "When  I 
reflect  that  Abd  Al-Malik's  tongue  must  sooner 
or  later  moulder  into  dust,  the  world  loses  its 
value  in  my  sight." 

Abu  l-Amaithal,  the  poet,  was  also  a  most  ef- 
ficient courtier.  As  he  kissed  one  day  the  hand 
of  Abd  Allah  Ibn  Tahir,  that  prince  complained 
of  the  roughness  of  the  poet's  moustachios, 
whereupon  he  immediately  observed  that  the 
spines  of  the  hedgehog  could  not  hurt  the  wrist 
of  the  lion.  Abd  Allah  was  so  pleased  with  this 
compliment  that  he  ordered  him  a  valuable  pres- 
ent. 

Another  graceful  compliment.     Of  Ishak  Ibn 
(72) 


A  School's  Self- Sacrifice 

Ibrahim  Al-Mausili,  who  was  famous  for  his  voice 
and  was  a  "constant  companion  of  the  khalifs  in 
their  parties  of  pleasure,"  the  khalif  Al-Motasim 
charmingly  said:  "Ishak  never  yet  sang  without 
my  feeling  as  if  my  possessions  were  increased." 

Another  compliment  that  goes  still  deeper. 
Abu  Nuwas,  in  a  lament  composed  on  the  death 
of  the  khalif  Al-Amin,  said  of  him:  His  death 
was  the  only  thing  I  feared,  and  now  nothing 
remains  for  me  to  dread. 

These,  however,  were  but  speeches.  Compli- 
ments may  be  conveyed  also  by  deeds,  as  we  find 
in  the  case  of  Imam  Al-Haramain,  who  was  so 
learned  and  acceptable  a  teacher  that,  at  thd 
moment  of  his  death,  his  scholars,  who  were  four 
hundred  and  one  in  number,  broke  their  pens 
and  inkhorns;  and  they  let  a  full  year  pass  over 
before  they  resumed  their  studies.  Of  these  Per- 
sians we  can  believe  in  the  sincerity;  but  the 
motives  of  English  scholars  performing  a  similar 
act  of  renunciation  might  be  open  to  suspicion. 

Badi  Az-Zaman  Al-Hamadani  was  famous  for 
his  epistolary  style.  Here  is  a  passage  which, 
though  written  in  Persia  in  the  tenth  century, 
might  have  aptness   in   English   country   houses 

(73) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

at  this  moment:  When  water  has  long  remained 
at  rest,  its  noxious  qualities  appear;  and  when  its 
surface  has  continued  tranquil,  its  foulness  gets 
into  motion.  Thus  it  is  with  a  guest :  his  presence 
is  displeasing  when  his  stay  has  been  protracted, 
and  his  shadow  is  oppressive  when  the  time  for 
which  he  should  sojourn  is  at  an  end.     Adieu. 

The  khalif  Ali  Ibn  Ali  Talib  was  a  very  just 
man.  Some  one  having  committed  a  theft  was 
brought  before  him.  "Bring  me  witnesses/'  said 
Ali,  "to  prove  that  he  purloined  the  object  out 
of  the  saddle-bag." 

Unmistakable  evidence  to  that  effect  being 
given,  Ali  immediately  ordered  the  fingers  of  his 
hand  to  be  cut  off. 

On  this  some  person  said  to  him:  "Commander 
of  the  Faithful!  why  not  cut  it  off  by  the  wrist?" 

"God  forbid!"  exclaimed  the  khalif;  "how 
could  he  then  lean  on  his  staff?  How  could  he 
pray?     How  could  he  eat?" 

In  the  Life  of  Ibn  Abd  Al-Barr,  a  Traditionist 
of  Cordova,  who,  "it  is  stated,  died  in  the  year 
380  (a.d.  990),  but  God  knows  best,"  a  number 
of  good  stories  are  collected.  This  is  one.  "It 
is  related  that,  when  Adam  was  sent  out  of  Para- 
(74) 


Adam's  Choice 

disc  and  down  to  earth  by  Almighty  God,  the 
angel  Gabriel  went  to  him  and  said :  'O  Adam ! 
God  here  sends  you  three  qualities,  so  that  you 
may  select  one  of  them  for  yourself  and  leave 
the  two  others.' 

"  'What  are  they?'  said  Adam. 

"Gabriel  replied:  'Modesty,  Piety,  and  In- 
telligence.' 

"  'I  choose  Intelligence,'  said  Adam. 

"The  angel  then  told  Modesty  and  Piety  to 
return  to  Heaven,  because  Adam  had  made  choice 
of  Intelligence. 

"They  answered:    'We  will  not  return.' 

"  'How !'  said  he.  'Do  you  mean  to  disobey 
me.?' 

"They  replied:  'We  do  not,  but  our  orders 
were,  never  to  quit  Intelligence  wherever  she 
might  be.'  " 

Another  story  showing  how  destructively  effec- 
tive may  be  the  use  of  fairness — politeness  with 
the  buttons  off — is  of  an  Arab  who,  on  being 
insulted  copiously  by  a  stranger,  remained  silent. 
To  the  question  why  he  did  not  reply,  he  said; 
'I  know  not  the  man's  vices  and  am  unwilling 
to  reproach  him  with  defects  he  may  not  have." 

(75) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

Two  other  anecdotes  are  of  the  famous  jester, 
Al-Jammaz.  The  first  tells  how  at  Basra  a  man 
perceiving  the  new  moon,  which  indicated  the 
beginning  of  the  month  of  fasting,  Ramadan, 
pointed  it  out  eagerly  to  his  companions.  "When 
the  moon  which  indicates  the  end  of  the  fast 
was  nearly  due,  Al-Jammaz  knocked  at  the  door 
of  this  too  officious  person  and  said:  'Come!  get 
up  and  take  us  out  of  the  scrape  into  which  you 
brought  us.'  " 

Al-Jammaz  was  delighted  with  the  following 
example  of  his  readiness.  "One  rainy  morning," 
he  said,  "I  was  asked  by  my  wife  what  was  best 
to  be  done  on  such  a  day  as  that,  and  I  an- 
swered: 'Divorcing  a  troublesome  wife.'  This 
stopped  her  mouth." 

Al-Mubarrad  used  frequently  to  recite  these 
lines  at  his  assemblies:  0  you  who,  in  sumptu- 
ous array,  strut  about  like  princes  and  scorn  the 
hatred  of  the  poor,  hnorv  that  the  saddle-cloth 
changeth  not  the  nature  of  the  ass,  neither  do 
splendid  trappings  change  the  nature  of  the  pack 
horse. 

When  Al-Mubarrad  died  a  poet  wrote  of  him: 
Behold  the  mansion  of  literature  half -demolished, 
(76) 


Old  Age 

and  destruction  awaiting  the  remainder.  That 
was  in  899. 

To  excuse  himself  for  a  want  of  social  cere- 
mony^ Ibn  Abi  's-Sakr^  "an  amateur  of  the  belles- 
lettres/'  who  died  in  1105,  composed  these  verses: 
An  indisposition  called  eighty  years  hinders  me 
from  rising  to  receive  my  friends;  but  when  they 
reach  an  advanced  age,  they  will  understand  and 
accept  my  excuse. 

Old  age  occurs  also  in  a  poem  of  Al-Otbi,  who 
died  in  842 :  When  Sulaima  saw  me  turn  my  eyes 
away — and  I  turn  my  glances  away  from  all  who 
resemble  her — she  said:  "I  saw  thee  mad  with 
love";  and  I  replied:  "Youth  is  a  madness  of 
which  old  age  is  the  cure."  This  phrase,  says 
Ibn  Khallikan,  afterwards  became  a  proverb. 
Most  nations  have  anecdotes  in  which  the  idea 
occurs. 

The  following  anecdote  of  the  kadi  Shuraih, 
who  was  famous  not  only  for  his  "great  skill  in 
distinguishing  right  from  wrong"  but  also  for  his 
humour,  is  very  pleasing.  Adi  Ibn  Arta,  who 
was  blind,  went  to  the  kadi's  house  one  day,  and 
the  following  dialogue  ensued: 

"Where  are  you,  kadi  ?     May  God  direct  you !" 

(77) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"I  am  between  you  and  the  wall." 

"Listen  to  me." 

"I  can  hear  very  well." 

"I  am  a  native  of  Syria." 

"It  is  a  distant  land." 

"And  I  have  married  a  wife  from  your  coun- 
try." 

"May  you  live  happily  and  have  many  chil- 
dren!" 

"And  I  wanted  to  take  her  on  a  journey." 

"Each  man  has  the  best  right  over  his  own  fam- 
ily." 

"But  I  engaged  not  to  remove  her  from  her 
native  place." 

"Engagements  are  binding." 

"Judge  then  between  us." 

"I  have  already  done  so." 

"And  against  whom  have  you  given  it?" 

"Against  your  mother's  son." 

"On  whose  evidence?" 

"On  the  evidence  of  your  maternal  aunt's  sis- 
ter's son." 

I  find  a  similar  quality — not  im-Johnsonian — 
in  the  reply  of  At-Tirmidi  the  juriconsult  to  a 
question,  as  reported  by  Abu  't-Taiyib  Ahmad 
(78) 


Forerunners  of  the  Doctor 

Ibn  Othman  As-Simsar.  "I  was/'  said  he,  "at 
Abu  Jaafar  At-Tirmidi's  when  a  person  consulted 
him  about  the  saying  of  the  Prophet,  that  God 
descended  to  the  heaven  of  the  world  (i.e.  the  low- 
est of  the  seven  heavens).  This  person  expressed 
his  desire  to  know  how  there  could,  in  that  case, 
be  anything  more  exalted  than  the  lowest  heaven  ? 

"At-Tirmidi  replied:  'The  descent  is  intelli- 
gible; the  manner  how  is  unknown;  the  belief 
therein  is  obligatory;  and  the  asking  about  it  is 
a  blameable  innovation.'  " 

The  kadi  Yahya  Ibn  Aktham,  although  famous 
for  his  licentiousness,  was  orthodox  to  the  mar- 
row. It  was  he  who  said:  "The  Koran  is  the 
word  of  God,  and  whoever  says  that  it  has  been 
created  by  man  should  be  invited  to  abandon  that 
opinion;  and  if  he  do  not,  his  head  should  be 
struck  off." 

The  following  dialogue  between  Yahya  and  a 
man  is  very  characteristic  of  dry  Persian  sa- 
gacity. The  man  began  it,  thus:  "May  God 
preserve  you!     How  much  should  I  eat?" 

Yahya  replied:  "Enough  to  get  over  hunger 
and  not  enough  to  attain  satiety." 

"How  long  may  I  laugh?" 

(79) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"Till  your  face  brightens,  but  without  raising 
your  voice." 

"How  long  should  I  weep?" 

"Weeping  should  never  fatigue  you,  if  it  be 
through  fear  of  God." 

"What  actions  of  mine  should  I  conceal?" 

"As  many  as  you  can." 

"What  are  the  actions  which  I  should  do 
openly  ?" 

"Those  which  may  serve  as  examples  to  good 
and  virtuous  men,  whilst  they  secure  you  from 
public  reprobation." 

On  this  the  man  exclaimed:  "May  God  pre- 
serve us  from  words  which  abide  when  deeds  have 
passed  away !"  It  is  possible  that  there  were  re- 
serves of  meaning  in  this  final  speech,  for  Yah- 
ya's  surname  Aktham  signifies  either  "a  corpu- 
lent man"  or  "sated  with  food." 

I  have  not  borrowed  much  from  Ibn  Khalli- 
kan's  heroics,  but  this  is  good.  Al-]\Ioizz  hav- 
ing conquered  Egypt,  he  entered  Old  Cairo.  His 
pretensions  to  be  a  descendant  of  Ali  had  already 
been  contested,  and  on  his  approach  the  people 
of  the  city  went  forth  to  meet  him,  accompanied 
by  a  band  of  sharif  s,  and  Ibn  Tabataba,  who  was 
(80) 


A  Conqueror's  Genealogy- 
one  of  the  number,  asked  him  from  whom  he  drew 
his  descent. 

To  this  question  Al-Moizz  replied:  "We  shall 
hold  a  sitting  to  which  all  of  you  shall  be  con- 
vened, and  there  we  shall  expose  to  you  the  entire 
chain  of  our  genealogy." 

Being  at  length  established  in  the  castle  of 
Cairo,  he  gave  a  public  audience,  as  he  had  prom- 
ised, and  having  taken  his  seat,  he  asked  if  any 
of  their  chiefs  were  still  alive? 

"No,"  replied  they,  "not  one  of  any  conse- 
quence survives." 

He  then  drew  his  sword  half-way  out  of  the 
scabbard  and  exclaimed:  "This  is  my  gene- 
alogy! And  here,"  said  he,  scattering  a  great 
quantity  of  gold  among  them,  "are  proofs  of  my 
nobility !" 

On  this  they  all  acknowledged  him  for  their 
lord  and  master. 

XIV     The  Ascetics 

Of  Bishr  Ibn  Al-Harith  Al-Hafi,  one  of  Bagh- 
dad's holiest  ascetics,  it  is  told  that  his  choice  of 
the  life  of  saintliness  thus  came  about.  Happen- 
ing to  find  on  the  road  a  leaf  of  paper  with  the 

(81) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

name  of  God  written  on  it^  which  had  been  tram- 
pled underfoot^  he  bought  ghalia  with  some  dir- 
hems  which  he  had  about  him,  and,  having  per- 
fumed the  leaf  with  it,  deposited  it  in  a  hole  in 
a  wall. 

Afterwards  he  had  a  dream,  in  which  a  voice 
seemed  to  say  to  him:  "O  Bishr!  thou  hast  per- 
fumed my  name,  and  I  shall  surely  cause  thine  to 
be  a  sweet  odour  both  in  this  world  and  the  next." 

When  he  awoke,  he  gave  up  the  world,  and 
turned  to  God. 

Bishr  being  once  asked  with  what  sauce  he  ate 
his  bread,  replied:  "I  think  on  good  health,  and 
I  take  that  as  my  sauce." 

One  of  his  prayers  was  this:  "O,  my  God! 
deprive  me  of  notoriety,  if  thou  hast  given  it  to 
me  in  this  world  for  the  purpose  of  putting  me 
to  shame  in  the  next." 

It  was  a  true  saying  of  another  famous  ascetic, 
Al-Fudail,  that,  when  God  loves  a  man.  He  in- 
creases his  afflictions,  and  when  He  hates  a  man. 
He  increases  his  worldly  prosperity. 

Asceticism,   however,   had   not   robbed   him   of 
human   sj^mpathy   or  warped  his   nature,   for  he 
said  at  another  time:     "For  a  man  to  be  polite 
(82) 


The  Wisdom  of  the  Good 

to  his  company  and  make  himself  agreeable  to 
them  is  better  than  to  pass  nights  in  prayer  and 
days  in  fasting." 

Abu  Ali  Ar-Razi  said:  "I  kept  company  with 
AI-Fudail  during  thirty  years,  and  I  never  saw 
him  laugh  or  smile  but  on  one  occasion,  and  that 
was  the  death  of  his  son.  On  my  asking  him  the 
reason,  he  replied:  'Whatever  is  pleasing  to 
God  is  pleasing  to  me.'  " 

Maruf  Al-Karkhi,  another  celebrated  saint, 
who  died  in  Baghdad  in  805,  had  a  sensible  elas- 
ticity. Passing,  one  day,  by  a  water-carrier  who 
was  crying  out:  "God  have  mercy  on  him  who 
drinketh!"  he  went  up  to  him  and  took  a  drink, 
although  he  was  at  that  time  keeping  a  strict  fast. 

Some  one,  horrified  at  the  impiety,  said  to  him : 
"Art  thou  not  keeping  a  fast?" 

He  replied:  "Yes,  I  am,  but  I  hoped  for  the 
fulfilment  of  that  man's  prayer." 

One  of  the  sayings  of  Abd  Al-Ala,  a  man  of 
holy  life,  was  this:  "Buying  what  one  does  not 
require,  is  selling  what  one  requires." 

Another  pious  man,  Abu  Othman  Al-Mazini 
the  grammarian,  used  to  tell  the  following  story 
against  himself:     "There  was  a  person  who,  for 

(83) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

a  long  time,  studied  under  me  the  grammar  of 
Sibawaih,  and  who  said  to  me,  when  he  got  to 
the  end  of  the  book,  'May  God  requite  you  well! 
As  for  me,  I  have  not  understood  a  letter  of  it,'  " 

Yahya,  a  celebrated  preacher,  on  being  asked 
by  a  descendant  of  the  Prophet,  "Tell  me.  Mas- 
ter !  and  may  God  assist  you !  what  is  your  opin- 
ion of  us  who  are  the  people  of  the  house," — that 
is  to  say,  the  members  of  Muhammad's  family, — 
replied:  "It  is  that  which  I  would  say  of  clay 
kneaded  with  the  water  of  divine  revelation  and 
sprinkled  with  the  water  of  the  heavenly  mis- 
sion: can  it  give  out  any  other  odour  than  the 
musk  of  true  direction  and  the  ambergris  of 
piety?" 

The  Alide  was  so  highly  pleased  with  this  an- 
swer that  he  filled  Yahya's  mouth  with  pearls. 

Yahya,  who  died  on  March  30,  872,  had  a  very 
graceful  turn  for  apophthegms.  "True  friend- 
ship," said  he,  "cannot  be  augmented  by  kindness 
nor  diminished  by  unkindness."  And  again,  he 
said:  "To  him  who  is  going  to  see  a  true  friend 
the  way  never  appears  long;  he  who  goes  to  visit 
his  beloved  never  feels  lonely  on  the  road." 

The  exaltation  of  friendship  is  indeed  one  of 
(84) 


In  Praise  of  Friendship 

the  beautiful  things  about  this  book.  And  the 
reader  can  never  have  too  much  of  it.  Buri  Taj 
Al-Muluk  was,  says  Ibn  Khallikan,  merely  a  man 
of  talent,  but  the  following  verse  by  him  contains 
a  perfectly  splendid  compliment:  My  friend  ap- 
proached from  the  west,  riding  on  a  grey  horse, 
and  I  exclaimed:  "Glory  to  the  Almighty!  the  sun 
has  risen  in  the  west!" 

At-Tihami,  the  poet,  one  of  whose  poems,  an 
elegy  on  the  death  of  his  son,  brings  ill-luck  when 
quoted,  wrote  these  admirable  lines  on  the  same 
theme:  In  the  company  of  noble-minded  men 
there  is  always  room  for  another.  Friendship,  it 
is  true,  renders  difficulties  easy:  a  house  may  be 
too  small  for  eight  persons,  yet  friendship  will 
make  it  hold  a  ninth. 

XV    A  Night  Scene 

The  capriciousness  of  the  moods  of  these  som- 
bre and  terrible  Eastern  autocrats — the  strange 
sentimental  chinks  in  their  armour — are  seen  in 
the  very  characteristic  story  which  follows.  "Se- 
cret information  having  been  given  to  Al-Muta- 
wakkil  that  the  imam,  Abu  '1-Hasan  Al-Askari, 

(85) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

had  a  quantity  of  arms,  books,  and  other  objects 
for  the  use  of  his  followers  concealed  in  his 
house,  and  being  induced  by  malicious  reports  to 
believe  that  he  aspired  to  the  empire,  he  sent  one 
night  some  soldiers  of  the  Turkish  guard  to  break 
in  on  him  when  he  least  expected  such  a  visit. 

"They  found  him  quite  alone  and  locked  up  in 
his  room,  clothed  in  a  hair-shirt,  his  head  covered 
with  a  woolen  cloak,  and  turned  with  his  face  in 
the  direction  of  Mecca,  chanting,  in  this  attitude, 
some  verses  of  the  Koran  expressive  of  God's 
promises  and  threats,  and  having  no  other  carpet 
between  him  and  the  earth  than  sand  and  gravel. 

"He  was  carried  off  in  that  attire  and  brought, 
in  the  depth  of  the  night,  before  Al-Mutawakkil, 
who  was  then  engaged  in  drinking  wine.  On 
seeing  him,  the  khalif  received  him  with  respect, 
and  being  informed  that  nothing  had  been  found 
in  his  house  to  justify  the  suspicions  cast  upon 
him,  he  seated  him  by  his  side  and  offered  him 
the  goblet  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  'Commander  of  the  Faithful !'  said  Abu 
'I-Hasan,  'a  liquor  such  as  that  was  never  yet 
combined  with  my  flesh  and  blood;  dispense  me 
therefore  from  taking  it.* 

(86) 


Suspect  and  Tyrant 

"The  khalif  acceded  to  his  requests,  and  then 
asked  him  to  repeat  some  verses  which  might 
amuse  him. 

"Abu  '1-Hasan  replied  that  he  knew  by  heart 
very  little  poetry;  but  Al-Mutawakkil  having  in- 
sisted, he  recited  these  lines  (which  anticipate 
Poe's  "Conqueror  Worm"  very  thoroughly) : 
'They  passed  the  night  on  the  summits  of  the 
mountains,  protected  by  valiant  warriors;  hut 
their  place  of  refuge  availed  them  not.  After  all 
their  pomp  and  potver,  they  had  to  descend  from 
their  lofty  fortresses  to  the  custody  of  the  tomb. 
0  what  a  dreadful  change!  Their  graves  had 
already  received  them  when  a  voice  was  heard  ex- 
claiming: "Where  are  the  thrones,  the  crowns, 
and  the  robes  of  state?  Where  are  now  the  faces 
once  so  delicate,  which  were  shaded  by  veils  and 
protected  by  the  curtains  of  the  audience-hall?" 
To  this  demand,  the  tomb  gave  answer  sufficient: 
"The  worms,"  it  said,  "are  now  revelling  upon 
those  faces;  long  had  these  men  been  eating  and 
drinking,  but  now  they  are  eaten  in  their  turn." ' 

"Every  person  present  was  filled  with  appre- 
hension for  Abu  '1-Hasan  Ali's  safety;  they 
feared  that  Al-Mutawakkil,  in  the  first  burst  of 

(87) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

indignation,  would  have  vented  his  wrath  upon 
him;  but  they  perceived  the  khalif  weeping  bit- 
terly, the  tears  trickling  down  his  beard,  and  all 
the  assembly  wept  with  him. 

"Al-Mutawakkil  then  ordered  the  wine  to  be 
removed,  after  which  he  said:  'Tell  me,  Abu 
'1-Hasan!  are  you  in  debt?' 

"  'Yes,'  replied  the  other,  'I  awe  four  thousand 
dinars.' 

"The  khalif  ordered  that  sum  to  be  given  him, 
and  sent  him  home  with  marks  of  the  highest  re- 
spect." 

XVI     The  Fair 

The  book  contains  the  lives  of  very  few 
women;  but  one  of  the  privileged  of  her  sex  is 
Buran,  who  died  in  884.  She  became  the  wife  of 
the  khalif  Al-Mamun,  who,  says  Ibn  Khallikan 
rather  ungallantly,  was  "induced  to  marry  her  by 
the  high  esteem  he  bore  her  father."  That  her 
father,  the  vizier,  saw  no  slight  in  this,  but  was 
not  unwilling  that  his  daughter  should  pass  under 
the  roof  of  another,  we  may  perhaps  gather  from 
the  lavishness  of  the  wedding,  which  was  cele- 
(88) 


Wedding  Festivities 

brated  at  Fam  As-Silh,  with  festivities  and  re- 
joicings, the  like  of  which  were  never  witnessed 
for  ages  before.  The  vizier's  liberality  went  so 
far  that  he  showered  balls  of  musk  upon  the 
Hashimites,  the  commanders  of  the  troops,  the 
katibs,  and  the  persons  who  held  an  eminent  rank 
at  court.  Musk  is  an  expensive  thing  in  itself, 
but  each  of  these  balls  contained  a  ticket,  and  the 
person  into  whose  hands  it  fell,  having  opened  it 
and  read  its  contents,  proceeded  to  an  agent  spe- 
cially appointed  for  the  purpose,  from  whom  he 
received  the  object  inscribed  on  the  ticket, 
whether  it  was  a  farm  or  other  property,  a  horse, 
a  slave-girl,  or  a  mameluk.  The  vizier  then 
scattered  gold  and  silver  coins  and  eggs  of  amber 
among  the  rest  of  the  people. 

Capricious  generosity  marked  many  of  these 
rulers.  Thus  it  is  told  of  Ibn  Bakiya,  the  vizier, 
that  in  the  space  of  twenty  days  he  distributed 
twenty  thousand  robes  of  honour.  "I  saw  him 
one  night  at  a  drinking  party,"  says  Abu  Ishak 
As-Sabi,  "and  during  the  festivity,  he  changed 
frequently  his  outer  dress  according  to  custom: 
every  time  he  put  on  a  new  pelisse,  he  bestowed 
it  on  one  or  other  of  the  persons  present;  so  that 

(89) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

he  gave  away,  in  that  sitting,  upwards   of  two 
hundred  pelisses. 

"A  female  musician  then  said  to  him:  'Lord 
of  viziers !  there  must  he  wasps  in  these  robes  to 
prevent  you  from  keeping  them  on  your  body !' 

"He  laughed  at  this  conceit,  and  ordered  her 
a  present  of  a  casket  of  jewels." 

Another  of  the  ladies  whom  Ibn  Khallikan  so 
seldom  leaves  his  high  road  to  notice  is  As-Sai- 
yida  Sukaina,  who,  however,  could  not  well  be 
excluded,  since  she  was  "the  first  among  the 
women  of  her  time  [she  died  a.d.  735]  by  birth, 
beauty,  wit,  and  virtue."  Part  of  her  fame  rests 
upon  her  repartees  to  poets:  a  most  desirable 
form  of  activity.  Thus,  Orwa  had  a  brother 
called  Abu  Bakr,  whose  death  he  lamented  in 
some  extravagant  verses  of  which  these  are  the 
concluding  lines:  My  sorrow  is  for  Bakr,  my 
brother!  Bahr  has  departed  from  me!  What 
life  can  now  he  pleasing  after  the  loss  of  Baler? 

When  Sukaina  heard  these  verses,  she  asked 
who  was  Bakr.     And  on  being  informed,  she  ex- 
claimed:    "What!    that    little    blackamoor    who 
used  to  run  past  us?     Why,  everything  is  pleas- 
(90) 


A  Slave-Girl  as  Critic 

ing  after  the  loss  of  Bakr,  even  the  common  nec- 
essaries of  life — bread  and  oil!" 

Another  female  intruder.  It  is  told  of  Ibn 
As-Sammak,  a  pious  sage  and  "professional  re- 
later  of  anecdotes/'  that  having  held  a  discourse 
one  day  in  the  hearing  of  his  slave-girl^  he  asked 
her  what  she  thought  of  it.  She  replied  that  it 
would  have  been  good  but  for  the  repetitions. 

"But,"  said  he,  "I  employ  repetitions  in  order 
to  make  those  understand  who  do  not." 

"Yes/'  she  replied,  "and  to  make  those  under- 
stand who  do  not,  you  weary  those  who  do." 

One  of  the  sayings  of  Ibn  As-Sammak  was: 
"Fear  God  as  if  you  had  never  obeyed  Him,  and 
hope  in  Him  as  if  you  had  never  disobeyed  Him." 

XVII     The  Great  Jaafar 

The  father  of  the  great  Jaafar  was  Yahya  the 
Barmekide,  the  friend  and  vizier  of  Harun  Ar- 
Raschid.  From  this  family  Ibn  Khallikan 
claimed  descent.  Yahya  was  "highly  distin- 
guished for  wisdom,  nobleness  of  mind,  and  ele- 
gance of  language."  One  of  his  sayings  was 
this:     "Three  things  indicate  the  degree  of  in- 

(91) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

telligence  possessed  by  him  who  does  them:  the 
bestowing  of  gifts,  the  drawing  up  of  letters,  and 
the  acting  as  ambassador." 

Another:  "Spend  when  Fortune  turns  toward 
you,  for  her  bounty  cannot  then  be  exhausted; 
spend  when  she  turns  away,  for  she  will  not  re- 
main with  you." 

He  said  also,  very  comfortingly:  "The  sin- 
cere intention  of  doing  a  good  action  and  a  legiti- 
mate excuse  for  not  doing  it  are  equivalent  to  its 
accomplishment." 

He  died  in  805,  after  long  imprisonment  by 
the  illustrious  khalifF  whose  pleasure  it  had  been 
to  address  him  always  as  "My  father." 

Such  was  Jaafar's  parent.  One  of  the  great- 
est men  in  the  whole  work  is  Jaafar  himself, 
called  Jaafar  the  Barmekide,  also  vizier  to  Harun 
Ar-Raschid.  Of  his  somewhat  sardonic  shrewd- 
ness this  is  a  good  example.  Having  learned 
that  Ar-Raschid  was  much  depressed  in  conse- 
quence of  a  Jewish  astrologer  having  predicted 
to  him  that  he  would  die  within  a  year,  he  inter- 
viewed the  Jew,  who  had  been  detained  as  a  pris- 
oner by  the  khalif's  orders. 

Jaafar  addressed  him  in  these  terms:  "You 
(92) 


The  Wisdom  of  Jaafar 

pretend  that  the  khalif  is  to  die  in  the  space  of 
so  many  days  ?" 

"Yes/'  said  the  Jew. 

"And  how  long  are  you  yourself  to  live?"  said 
Jaafar. 

"So  many  years,"  replied  the  other,  mentioning 
a  great  number. 

Jaafar  then  said  to  the  khalif:  "Put  him  to 
death,  and  you  will  be  thus  assured  that  he  is 
equally  mistaken  respecting  the  length  of  your 
life  and  that  of  his  own." 

This  advice  was  followed  by  the  khalif,  who 
then  thanked  Jaafar  for  having  dispelled  his  sad- 
ness. 

At  the  other  extreme — though  akin  in  sardonic 
humour — is  this  incident.  It  is  related  that  one 
day,  at  Jaafar's,  a  beetle  flew  towards  Abu  Obaid 
the  Thakefite,  and  that  Jaafar  ordered  it  to  be 
driven  away,  when  Abu  Obaid  said:  "Let  it  alone; 
it  may  perhaps  bring  me  good  luck;  such  is  at 
least  the  vulgar  opinion." 

Jaafar  on  this  ordered  one  thousand  dinars  to 
be  given  him,  saying:  "The  vulgar  opinion  is 
confirmed." 

The  beetle  was  then  set  at  liberty,  but  it  flew 

(92) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

towards  Abu  Obaid  a  second  time,  and  Jaafar 
ordered  him  another  present  of  the  same  amount. 

Such  was  the  affection  the  khalif  felt  for  Jaa-, 
far  that  he  caused  a  robe  with  two  collars  to  be 
made  which  they  could  wear  at  the  same  time. 

Fickle,  however,  are  princes,  and  Jaafar's  end 
came  in  the  usual  way,  through  treachery.  He 
was  killed,  by  the  khalif's  orders,  by  Yasir. 
Yasir  having  put  Jaafar  to  death,  carried  in  his 
head  and  placed  it  before  the  khalif. 

The  khalif  looked  at  the  head  for  some  time, 
and  then  ordered  Yasir  to  bring  in  two  persons 
whom  he  named.  When  they  came,  he  said  to 
them:  "Strike  off  Yasir's  head,  for  I  cannot 
bear  the  sight  of  Jaafar's  murderer." 

XVIII     Love  and  Lovers 

As  I  have  said,  these  four  great  volumes  are  a 
mine  from  which  many  different  metals  may  be 
extracted.  My  own  researches  having  tended 
rather  to  a  certain  ironic  quality,  I  have  passed 
many  lovers  by;  but  let  me  make  an  exception  or 
so.  There  is,  for  example,  Kuthaiyr.  In  the  ac- 
count of  this  celebrated  Arabian  amorist,  we  com,e 
(9i) 


The  Truest  Love 

upon  a  very  pretty  storj'.  Being  once  in  the 
presence  of  Abd  Al-Malik,  this  prince  said  to 
Kuthaiyr:  "I  conjure  thee  by  the  rights  of  All 
Abi  Ibn  Talib  to  inform  me  if  thou  ever  sawest 
a  truer  lover  than  thyself." 

To  this  Kuthaiyr  replied.  "Commander  of  the 
Faithful!  conjure  me  by  your  own  rights,  and  I 
shall  answer  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  prince,  "I  conjure  thee  by  my 
own  rights;  wilt  thou  not  tell  it  to  me  now?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Kuthaiyr;  "I  will.  As  I  was 
travelling  in  a  certain  desert,  I  beheld  a  man  who 
had  just  pitched  his  toils  to  catch  game,  and  I 
said  to  him:  'Why  art  thou  sitting  here?'  And 
he  replied:  'I  and  my  people  are  dying  with  hun- 
ger, and  I  have  pitched  these  toils  that  I  may 
catch  something  which  may  sustain  our  lives  till 
to-morrow.'  'Tell  me,'  said  I,  'if  I  remain  with 
thee  and  thou  takest  any  game,  wilt  thou  give  me 
a  share?'  He  answered  that  he  would;  and 
whilst  we  were  waiting,  behold,  a  gazelle  got  into 
the  net.  We  both  rushed  forward;  but  he  outran 
me,  and  having  disentangled  the  animal,  he  let 
it  go.  '^Vliat,'  said  I,  'could  have  induced  thee 
to  do  so?'     He  replied:     'On  seeing  her  so  like 

(95) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

my  beloved  Laila  in  the  eyes,  I  was  touched  with 
pity.'  " 

Little  men  who  are  disposed  to  envy  the  big 
on  account  of  fair  ladies  may  take  comfort  from 
Kuthaiyr,  for  although  so  ardent  and  successful, 
he  was  absurdly  small:  so  short  indeed  that, 
when  he  went  to  visit  Abd  Al-Aziz  Ibn  Marwan, 
that  prince  used  to  banter  him  and  say:  "Stoop 
your  head,  lest  you  hurt  it  against  the  ceiling." 

He  was  called  Rabb  Ad-Dubab  (the  king  of 
the  flies)  for  the  same  reason.  One  of  his  con- 
temporaries said:  "I  saw  him  making  the  cir- 
cuits round  the  Kaaba;  and  if  anyone  tell  you 
that  his  stature  exceeded  three  spans,  that  per- 
son is  a  liar." 

Abu  Omar  Az-Zahid  Al-Mutarriz,  although 
he  "ranked  among  the  most  eminent  and  the 
most  learned  of  the  philologers,"  and  was  fa- 
mous for  his  "mortified  life,"  could  write  love 
poems  too.  Here  is  one:  Overcome  with  grief, 
we  stopped  at  As-Sarat  one  evening,  to  exchange 
adieus;  and,  despite  of  envious  foes,  we  stood  un- 
sealing the  packets  of  every  passionate  desire.  On 
saying  farewell,  she  saw  me  borne  down  by  the 
pains  of  love,  and  consented  to  grant  me  a  kiss; 
(96) 


Wine,  Women  and  Song 

but,  impelled  by  startled  modesty,  she  drew  her 
veil  across  her  face.  On  this  I  said:  "The  full 
moon  has  now  become  a  crescent."  I  then  kissed 
her  through  the  veil,  and  she  observed:  "My 
kisses  are  mine:  to  be  tasted,  they  must  be  passed 
through  the  strainer."  (It  seems,  however,  from 
Ibn  Khallikan's  anxious  dubiety  on  the  matter, 
that  this  poem,  after  all,  may  have  been  written, 
like  the  Iliad,  by  another  poet  of  the  same  name. 
God  only  knows.) 

Another  Anacreontic,  this  time  by  Ibn  Zuhr: 
Whilst  the  fair  ones  lay  reclining,  their  cheek 
pillowed  on  the  arm,  a  hostile  inroad  of  the  dawn 
took  us  by  surprise.  I  had  passed  the  night  in 
filling  up  their  cups  and  drinking  what  they  had 
left;  till  inebriation  overcame  me,  and  my  lot  was 
theirs  also.     The  wine  well  knows  how  to  avense 

o 

a  wrong;  I  turned  the  goblet  up,  and  that  liquor 
turned  me  down. 

The  poetry  of  love  comprises,  alas !  also  the 
poetry  of  despair.  Here  is  an  example  by  Ibn 
As-Sarraj,  the  grammarian:  I  compared  her 
beauty  with  her  conduct,  and  found  that  her 
charms  did  not  counterbalance  her  perfidy.  She 
swore  to  me  never  to  be  false,  but  'twas  as  if  she 

(97) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

had  sworn  never  to  be  true.  By  Allah!  I  shall 
never  speak  to  her  again,  even  though  she  re- 
sembled in  beauty  the  full  moon,  or  the  sun,  or 
Al-Muktafi! 

The  inclusion  of  the  khalif  Al-Muktafi  seems 
to  have  been  an  afterthought,  added  when  the 
poet  first  saw  him.  Struck  by  his  comeliness,  he 
recited  the  poem  to  some  companions  and  inserted 
his  name  at  the  end.  The  sequel  is  amusing  and 
very  characteristic.  "Some  time  after,  the  katib 
Abu  Abd  Allah  Muhammad  Ibn  Ismail  Ibn  Zenji 
repeated  the  verses  to  Abu  '1- Abbas  Ibn  Al-Furat, 
saying  that  they  were  composed  by  Ibn  Al-Mo- 
tazz,  and  Abu  '1-Abbas  communicated  them  to 
the  vizier  Al-Kasim  Ibn  Obaid  Allah.  The  latter 
then  went  to  the  khalif  and  recited  the  verses  to 
him,  adding  that  they  were  by  Obaid  Allah  Ibn 
Abd  Allah  Ibn  Tahir,  to  whom  Al-Muktafi  im- 
mediately ordered  a  present  of  one  thousand 
dinars. 

"  'How  very  strange,'  said  Ibi  Zenji,  'that  Ibn 
As-Sarraj  should  compose  verses  which  were  to 
procure  a  donation  to  Obaid  Allah  Ibn  Abd  Allah 
Ibn  Tahir!"' 

Abu  Bakr  Ibn  Aiyash,  the  Traditionist  and 
(98) 


In  Mitigation 

scholar,  discovered  a  remedy  for  lovers  which  is 
too  simple,  I  fear,  to  commend  itself  to  less 
philosophic  Occidentals  affected  by  the  pains  of 
longing.  "I  was  suffering,"  he  says,  "from  an 
anxious  desire  of  meeting  one  whom  I  loved, 
when  I  called  to  mind  the  verse  of  Zu  'r-Rum- 
ma's:  Perhaps  a  flow  of  tears  will  give  me  ease 
from  pain;  perhaps  it  may  cure  a  heart  rvhose 
sole  companion  is  sad  thoughts.  On  this  I  with- 
drew to  a  private  place  and  wept,  by  which  means 
my  sufferings  were  calmed." 

XIX     To  Disarm  Critics 

And  so  we  come  to  an  end.  And  how  can 
an  author  do  better  than  to  quote  Ibn  Khallikan's 
own  concluding  words,  which,  though  written  so 
long  ago  about  a  biographical  dictionary,  may  be 
borrowed  by  all  literary  hands  as  palliation  for 
whatever  shortcomings  their  work  may  have? — 
"If  any  well-informed  person  remark,  in  ex- 
amining this  book,  that  it  contains  faults,  he 
should  not  hasten  to  blame  me,  for  I  always 
aimed  at  being  exact,  as  far  as  I  could  judge; 
and,  besides,  God  has  allowed  no  book  to  be 
faultless  except  His  noble  Koran." 

(99) 


DIVERSIONS 


101 


DIVERSIONS 
NURSES 

THE  conversation  turning,  as,  round  Eng- 
lish fires,  it  often  does,  on  the  peculiarities 
of  an  old  nurse  of  the  family,  I  was  struck  again 
by  the  tenderness  and  kindness,  shot  through 
with  humour,  that  are  always  evoked  by  this  par- 
ticular retrospective  mood.  I  would  even  say 
that  people  are  at  their  best  when  they  are  re- 
membering their  nurses.  To  recall  one's  parents 
is  often  to  touch  chords  that  vibrate  too  disturb- 
ingly; but  these  foster  parents,  chosen  usually 
with  such  strange  carelessness  but  developing 
often  into  true  guardian  angels,  with  good  influ- 
ences persisting  through  life — when,  in  reminis- 
cent vein,  we  set  them  up,  one  against  the  other, 
can  call  from  the  speakers  qualities  that  they 
normally  may  conspicuously  lack.  Quite  dull 
people  can  become  interesting  and  whimsical  as 
103 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

their  thoughts  wander  back  through  the  years  to 
the  day  when  old  Martha  or  old  Jane,  or  whoever 
it  was,  moulded  them  and  scolded  them  and  broke 
the  laws  of  grammar.  Quite  hard  people  can 
then  melt  a  little.  Quite  stern  people  can  smile. 
And  quite  funny  people  can  become  intensely 
funny,  as  I  have  melancholy  reason  to  know,  for, 
listening  to  these  new  anecdotes,  I  recalled  the 
last  occasion  on  which  the  fruitful  theme  of  a 
Nanna's  oddities  had  been  developed;  when  the 
speaker  was  that  fascinating  athlete  and  gentle- 
man, E.  B.,  a  gallant  officer  with  a  gift  of  mimi- 
cry as  notable  as  his  sense  of  fun  and  his  depth 
of  feeling,  who,  chiefly  for  the  amusement  of  two 
children,  but  equally — or  even  more — to  the  de- 
light of  us  older  ones,  not  only  gave  us  certain 
of  his  old  nurse's  favourite  sayings,  in  her  own 
voice,  but  reconstructed  her  features  as  he  did  so. 
All  good  mimicry  astonishes  and  entertains  me, 
and  this  was  especially  good,  for  it  triumphed 
over  the  disabilities  of  a  captain's  uniform. 
Something  very  curious  and  pretty,  and,  through 
all  our  laughter,  aifecting,  in  the  spectacle  of  this 
tall,  commanding  soldier  painting  with  little  lov- 
ing comic  touches  the  portrait  of  the  old  Mala- 
(101) 


Our  First  Friends 

propian  lady  with  her  heart  of  gold.  That  was 
a  few  short  months  ago,  and  to-day  E.  B.  lies 
in  a  French  grave. 

Malapropisms  and  old  nurses  are,  of  course, 
inseparable.  Indeed,  they  formed  again  the 
basis  of  our  talk  the  other  evening,  each  of  us 
having  a  new  example  to  give,  all  drawn  from 
memories  of  childhood.  Wonderful  how  these 
quaint  phrases  stick — due,  I  suppose,  to  the  fact 
that  the  child  does  not  hear  too  much  to  confuse 
it,  and  when  in  this  tenacious  stage  notices  the 
sharp  differences  between  the  conversation  of  the 
literate,  as  encountered  in  the  dining-room  and 
drawing-room,  and  the  much  more  amusing 
illiteracy  below  stairs.  It  will  be  a  bad  day  for 
England  when  education  is  so  prevalent  that 
nursemaids  have  it  too.  Much  less  interesting 
will  the  backward  look  then  become. 

How  far  forward  we  have  moved  in  general 
social  decency  one  realizes  after  listening  to  such 
conversations  as  I  have  hinted  at,  where  respect 
and  affection  dominate,  and  then  turning  to  some 
of  the  children's  books  of  a  century  ago — the 
kind  of  book  in  which  the  parents  are  always 
right  and  made  in  God's  image,  and  the  children 

(105) 


''A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

full  of  faults.  In  one  of  these  I  found  recently 
a  story  of  a  little  girl  who,  being  rude  and  wilful 
with  her  maid,  was  rebuked  by  her  kind  and  wise 
mamma  in  some  such  phrase  as,  "Although  it  has 
pleased  the  Almighty  to  set  you  and  Sarah  in 
such  different  positions,  you  have  no  right  to  be 
unjust  to  her." 

Reflecting  upon  how  great  a  change  has  come 
upon  the  relation  of  employers  and  employed, 
and  how  much  greater  a  change  is  in  store,  it 
seems  to  me  that  one  of  the  good  human  kinds  of 
book  that  does  not  at  present  exist,  and  ought  to 
be  made,  would  bring  together  between  two  cov- 
ers some  of  the  best  servants  in  history,  public 
and  private,  and  possibly  in  literature  too.  Nurses 
first,  because  the  nurse  is  so  much  more  impor- 
tant a  factor  in  family  life,  and  because,  to  my 
mind,  she  has  never  had  honour  enough.  I  doubt 
if  enough  honour  could  be  paid  to  her,  but  the 
attempt  has  not  been  sufficiently  made.  And  to- 
day, of  course,  the  very  word  as  I  am  using  it 
has  only  a  secondary  meaning.  By  "nurse"  to- 
day we  mean  first  a  cool,  smiling  woman,  with  a 
white  cap  and  possibly  a  red  cross,  ministering 
to  the  wounded  and  the  sick.  We  have  to  think 
(106) 


A  Book  of  Praise 

twice  in  order  to  evoke  the  guardian  angel  of  our 
childhood,  the  mother's  right  hand,  and  often  so 
much  more  real  than  tlie  mother  herself.  I 
would  lay  special  emphasis  on  the  nurse  who,  be- 
ginning as  a  young  retainer,  develops  into  a 
friend  and  to  the  end  of  her  days  moves  on 
parallel  lines  with  the  family,  even  if  she  is  not 
still  of  it.  These  old  nurses,  the  nurses  of  whom 
the  older  we  grow  the  more  tenderly  and  grate- 
fully we  think — will  no  one  give  them  a  book 
of  praise?  I  should  love  to  read  it.  And  there 
should  not  be  any  lack  of  material — with  Steven- 
son's Alison  Cunningham  by  no  means  last  on 
the  list. 

But  if  on  examination  the  material  proved  too 
scanty,  then  the  other  devoted  servants  might 
come  in  too,  such  as  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Tom 
Purdie,  who  should  have  a  proud  place,  and  that 
wonderful  gardener  of  the  great  Dumas,  whose 
devotion  extended  to  confederacy. 

Without  Dumas'  gardener,  indeed,  no  book  in 
honour  of  the  fidelity  of  man  to  man  could  be 
complete.  For  just  think  of  it!  The  only  ap- 
proach to  the  house  of  the  divine  Alexandre 
being  by  way  of  a  wooden  bridge,  this  immortal 

(107) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

tender  of  flowers  and  vegetables  so  arranged  the 
planks  that  any  undesired  caller  bearing  a  writ 
or  long-overdue  account  would  fall,  all  naturally 
and  probably  through  his  own  confused  careless- 
ness, into  the  river;  and,  on  being  pulled  out  and 
restored  to  happy  life,  would  not  only  abandon 
the  horrid  purpose  of  his  visit,  but,  gratitude 
prompting,  be  generous  enough  to  go  at  least 
part  of  the  way  towards  paying  the  gardener's 
wages,  which  otherwise  that  resourceful  bene- 
factor might  never  obtain. 

On  a  place  in  the  volume  for  this  exemplary 
character,  I  insist.    But,  as  I  say,  nurses  first. 


(108) 


NO.  344260 

COMING  the  other  day,  after  every  kind  of 
struggle,  at  last  into  possession  of  one  of 
the  new  pound  notes,  I  was  interested  in  placing 
it  quickly  under  the  microscope,  so  to  speak,  in 
order  that,  in  case  I  never  saw  another,  I  should 
be  able  to  describe  it  to  my  grandchildren.  How 
indigent  I  have  been  may  be  gathered  from  the 
circumstance  that  this  note,  being  numbered 
344260,  had  three  hundred  and  forty-four  thou- 
sand two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  predecessors 
which  had  eluded  me. 

As  a  work  of  art  it  is  remarkable — almost, 
indeed,  a  gallery  in  itself,  comprising  as  it  does 
portraiture,  design,  topography,  and  the  delinea- 
tion of  one  of  the  most  spirited  episodes  in 
religious  history.  After  the  magic  words  "One 
Pound,"  it  is,  of  course,  to  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon  that  the  eye  first  turns.    What  Mr.  Rus- 

(109) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

kin  would  say  of  the  latest  version  of  the  en- 
counter between  England's  tutelary  genius  and 
his  fearsome  foe,  one  can  only  guess;  but  I  feel 
sure  that  he  would  be  caustic  about  the  Saint's 
grip  on  his  spear.  To  get  its  head  right  through 
the  dragon's  chest — taking,  as  it  has  done,  the 
longest  possible  route — and  out  so  far  on  the 
other  side,  would  require  more  vigour  and  tension 
than  is  suggested  by  the  casual  way  in  which  the 
thumb  rests  on  the  handle.  Dragons'  necks  and 
bosoms  are,  I  take  it,  not  only  scaly  without  but 
of  a  sinewy  consistency  within  that  is  by  no 
means  easy  to  penetrate,  and  in  this  particular 
case  the  difficulty  must  have  been  increased  by 
the  creature's  struggles,  which,  the  artist  admits, 
bent  the  spear  very  noticeably.  None  the  less, 
the  Saint's  hold  is  most  delicate,  and  his  features 
are  marked  by  the  utmost  placidity. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Saint  is  not  sufficiently 
armed  on  our  £l  notes;  for  in  real  life,  and 
particularly  when  he  rode  out  on  the  Libyan 
plain  to  do  battle  with  the  dragon,  he  had  a 
sword  as  well  as  a  spear.  But  he  could  not  have 
had  both  if  he  were  dressed  as  the  Treasury 
artist  dresses  him,  unless  he  carried  the  sword 
(110) 


St.  George  and  the  Dragon 

between  his  teeth;  which  he  is  not  doing.  There 
is  no  better  authority  than  The  Golden  Legend, 
and  The  Golden  Legend  (in  the  translation  of 
Master  William  Caxton)  testifieth  thus:  "Then 
as  they  [St.  George  and  the  King's  daughter, 
whom  the  dragon  desired,]  spake  together,  the 
dragon  appeared  and  came  ruiming  to  them,  and 
St.  George  was  upon  his  horse,  and  drew  out  his 
sword  and  garnished  him  with  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  rode  hardily  against  the  dragon  which 
came  towards  him,  and  smote  him  with  his  spear 
[spear,  now,  take  notice],  and  hurt  him  sore  and 
threw  him  to  the  ground."  The  absence  of  the 
sword  is  one  error  that  never  ought  to  have 
gained  currency.  Another  is  the  grievousness  of 
the  wound  which  is  depicted;  for  in  real  life  the 
wound  was  so  slight,  although  sufficient,  that  the 
King's  daughter — but  let  Master  Caxton  con- 
tinue, for  he  writeth  better  than  I  ever  shall. 
Having  conquered  the  foe,  St.  George,  according 
to  The  Golden  Legend,  "said  to  the  maid:  'De- 
liver to  me  your  girdle,  and  bind  it  about  the 
neck  of  the  dragon,  and  be  not  afeared.'  When 
she  had  done  so,  the  dragon  followed  her  as  it 
had  been  a  meek  beast  and  debonair."     It  was 

(111) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

later,  and  not  until  St.  George  had  baptized  the 
King  and  all  his  people  (which  was  his  reward), 
that  he  smote  off  the  dragon's  head. 

To  my  mind  The  Golden  Legend  is  too  gentle 
with  this  contest.  I  like  a  real  fight,  and  here 
one  is  almost  as  much  defrauded  as  in  tha 
story  of  David  and  Goliath.  In  treating  the 
victory  over  the  dragon  with  equal  lightness, 
perhaps  the  Treasury  artist,  even  though  he  has 
not  followed  the  authority  closely  enough  in 
other  ways,  is  justified;  but  he  should  have  read 
the  text  more  carefully,  for  no  one  can  pretend 
that  a  dragon  so  drastically  perforated  as  this 
one  could  follow  a  princess  into  the  city.  In- 
deed, it  is  such  a  coup  de  grace  as  no  self-re- 
specting and  determined  dragon,  furnished  with 
wings,  inflammable  breath,  and  all  the  usual  fit- 
tings, would  have  submitted  itself  to.  Because, 
given  wings,  neither  of  which  is  broken,  how 
would  it  have  allowed  itself  to  come  into  that 
posture  at  all? 

Saints,  however,  must  be  saints;  and  their  ad- 
versaries know  this. 

It  was  only,  as  I  have  said,  with  incredible 
difficulties  that  I  could  get  this  pound  note  to 
(112) 


When  Paper  was  Gold 

study;  imagine,  then,  what  pains  and  subter- 
fuges were,  in  1917,  necessary  in  order  to  obtain 
the  loan  of  a  sovereign  with  which  to  compare 
the  golden  rendering  of  the  same  conflict.  Even- 
tually, however,  I  was  successful,  and  one  of  the 
precious  discs  passed  temporarily  into  my  keep- 
ing. It  lies  beside  No.  344260  on  the  table  as  I 
write.  In  this  treatment — Mr.  Ruskin's  stric- 
tures upon  which  are  familiar — one  is  first  struck 
by  the  absurdity  of  the  Saint's  weapon:  a  short 
dagger  with  which  he  could  never  do  any  dam- 
age at  all,  unless  either  he  fell  off  his  horse  or 
the  dragon  obligingly  rose  up  to  meet  the  blow. 
Fortunately,  however,  the  horse  has  powerful 
hoofs,  and  one  of  these  is  inflicting  infinite  mis- 
chief. Other  noticeable  peculiarities  of  the  sov- 
ereign's rendering  are  the  smallness  of  the  horse's 
head  and  the  length  of  St.  George's  leg.  The 
total  effect,  in  spite  of  blemishes,  is  more  spirited 
than  that  of  No.  344260,  but  both  would  equally 
fill  a  Renaissance  Florentine  medallist  with 
gloom. 

So  much  for  the  St.  Georges  and  the  Dragons 
of  Treasury  artists.  But  when  it  comes  to  No. 
344260's  portrait  of  Mr.  Jolm  Bradbury,  Secre- 

(113) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

tary  to  the  Treasury,  over  his  facsimile  auto- 
graph, in  green  ink,  I  have  no  fault  to  find.  This 
is  a  strong  profile  treatment,  not  a  little  like  the 
King,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  it.  One  likes 
to  think  of  regal  features  and  tonsorial  habits 
setting  a  fashion.  Mr.  John  Bradbury  does  well 
and  loyally  to  resemble  as  closely  as  he  can  his 
royal  master. 

Having  reached  this  point,  I  turned  No. 
S44260  over  and  examined  the  back,  which  rep- 
resents the  Houses  of  Parliament  as  seen  from 
Lambeth.  There  are  three  peculiarities  about 
this  picture.  One  is  that  all  the  emphasis  is  laid 
— where  of  late  we  have  not  been  in  the  habit 
of  looking  for  it — on  the  House  of  Lords;  an- 
other is  that  Parliament  is  not  sitting,  for  the 
Victoria  Tower  is  without  its  flag;  and  the  third 
is  that  Broad  Sanctuary  has  been  completely 
eliminated,  so  that  the  Abbey  and  the  Victoria 
Tower  form  one  building.  No  doubt  to  the  for- 
tunate persons  through  whose  hands  one  pound 
notes  pass,  such  awful  symbolism  conveys  a 
sense  of  England's  greatness  and  power;  but  I 
think  it  would  be  far  more  amusing  if  the  back 
had  been  left  blank,  in  case  some  later  Robbie 
(114) 


Robbie's  Lament 

Burns  (could  this  decadent  world  ever  know  so 
fine  a  thing  again)  wished  to  write  another  la- 
ment on  it: 

For  lack  o'  thee  I've  lost  my  lass. 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass. 

Or,  if  not  blank,  thirty  (say)  spaces  might  be 
ruled  on  it,  in  which  the  names  of  its  first  thirty 
owners  could  be  written.  By  the  time  the  spaces 
were  filled  it  would  be  a  document  historically 
valuable  now  and  then  to  autograph  collectors. 
It  would  also  be  dirty  enough  to  call  in. 


(115) 


THE  TWO  PERKINSES 

WALKING  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of 
the  July  evening,  I  was  struck  afresh 
by  the  beauty  of  that  climbing  rose  we  call 
Dorothy  Perkins,  and  by  her  absolute  inability 
to  make  a  mistake.  There  are  in  this  garden 
several  of  these  ramblers,  all  heritages  from  an 
earlier  tenant  and  all  very  skilfully  placed:  one 
over  an  arch,  one  around  a  window,  and  three  or 
four  clambering  up  fir  posts  on  which  the  stumps 
of  boughs  remain;  and  in  every  case  the  rose  is 
flowering  more  freely  than  ever  before,  and  has 
arranged  its  blossoms,  leaves,  and  branches  with 
an  exquisite  and  impeccable  taste.  Always  love- 
ly, Dorothy  Perkins  is  never  so  lovely  as  in  the 
evening,  just  after  the  sun  has  gone,  when  the 
green  takes  on  a  new  sobriety  against  which  her 
gay  and  tender  pink  is  gayer  and  more  tender. 
"Pretty  little  Dolly  Perkins!"  I  said  to  myself 
(116) 


A  Mediterranean  Songster 

involuntarily,  and  instantly,  by  the  law  of  asso- 
ciation— which,  I  sometimes  fondly  suppose,  is 
more  powerful  with  me  than  with  many  people — 
I  began  to  think  of  another  evening,  twenty  and 
more  years  ago,  when  for  the  first  time  I  heard 
the  most  dainty  of  English  comic  songs  sung  as 
it  should  be,  with  the  first  words  of  the  chorus 
accentuated  like  hammer  blows  in  unison: 

For — she — was — as — 

and  then  tripping  merrily  into  the  rest  of  it: 

— beautiful  as  a  butterfly, 

As  fair  as  a  queen, 
Was   pretty   little   Polly  Perkins 

Of  Paddington  Green, 

It  is  given  to  most  of  us — not  always  without  a 
certain  wistful  regret — to  recall  the  circum- 
stances under  which  we  first  heard  our  favourite 
songs;  and  on  the  evening  when  I  met  "Pretty 
Polly  Perkins"  I  was  on  a  tramp  steamer  in  the 
Mediterranean,  when  at  last  the  heat  had  gone 
and  work  was  over  and  we  were  free  to  be  me- 
lodious. My  own  position  on  tliis  boat  was  nomi- 
nally purser,  at  a  shilling  a  month,  but  in  reality 
passenger,  or  super-cargo,  spending  most  of  the 
day  either  in  reading  or  sleeping.     The  second 

(117) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

engineer,  a  huge  Sussex  man,  whose  favourite 
theme  of  conversation  with  me  was  the  cricket 
of  his  county,  was,  it  seemed,  famous  for  this 
song;  and  that  evening,  as  we  sat  on  a  skylight, 
he  was  suddenly  withdrawn  from  a  eulogy  of  the 
odd  ways  and  deadly  left-handers  of  poor  one- 
eyed  "Jumper"  Juniper  (whom  I  had  known  per- 
sonally, when  I  was  a  small  school-boy,  in  a 
reverential  way)  to  give  the  company  "Pretty 
Polly  Perkins."  In  vain  to  say  that  he  was  busy, 
talking  to  me ;  that  he  was  dry ;  that  he  had  no 
voice.  "Pretty  Polly  Perkins"  had  to  be  sung, 
and  he  struck  up  without  more  ado: 

I'm  a  broken-hearted  milkman, 

In  woe  I'm  arrayed. 
Through  keeping  the  company  of 

A  young  servant  maid — 

and  so  forth.  And  then  came  the  chorus,  which 
has  this  advantage  over  all  other  choruses  ever 
written,  that  the  most  tuneless  singer  on  earth 
(such  as  myself)  and  the  most  shamefaced  (I  am 
autobiographical  again)  can  help  to  swell,  at  any 
rate,  the  notable  opening  of  it,  and  thus  ensure 
the  success  of  the  rest. 

That  evening,  as  I  say,  was  more  than  twenty 
(118) 


Pretty  Polly  in  Boston 

years  ago,  and  I  had  thought  in  the  interval  lit- 
tle enough  of  the  song  until  the  other  pretty 
Perkins  suggested  it;  but  I  need  hardly  say  that 
the  next  day  came  a  further  reminder  of  it  (since 
that  is  one  of  the  queer  rules  of  life)  in  the  shape 
of  a  Chicago  weekly  paper  with  the  information 
that  America  knows  "Pretty  Polly  Perkins"  too. 
The  ballads  of  a  nation  for  the  most  part  re- 
spect their  nationality,  but  now  and  then  there  is 
free  trade  in  them.  It  has  been  so  with  "Pretty 
Polly  Perkins";  for  it  seems  that,  recognizing 
its  excellence,  an  American  singer  prepared,  in 
1864,  a  version  to  suit  his  own  country,  choosing, 
as  it  happens,  not  New  York  or  Washington  as 
the  background  of  the  milkman's  love  drama,  but 
the  home  of  Transatlantic  culture  itself,  Boston. 
Paddington  Green  would,  of  course,  mean  noth- 
ing to  American  ears,  but  Boston  is  happy  in  the 
possession  of  a  Pemberton  Square,  which  may, 
for  all  I  know,  be  as  important  to  the  Hub  of  the 
Universe  as  Merrion  Square  is  to  Dublin,  and 
Polly  was,  therefore,  made  comfortable  there, 
and,  as  Pretty  Polly  Perkins  of  Pemberton 
Square,  became  as  famous  as,  in  our  effete  hemi- 
sphere.    Pretty     Polly     Perkins    of    Paddington 

(119) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

Green.  The  adaptor  deserves  great  credit  for 
altering  as  little  as  possible.  Beyond  Polly's 
abode,  and  the  necessary  rhymes  to  mate  with 
Square,  he  did  nothing,  so  that  the  song,  while 
transplanted  to  America,  remained  racy  of  the 
English  capital.  It  was  still  the  broken-hearted 
milkman  who  sang  it,  and  the  denouement,  which 
is  so  very  English — and,  more  than  English, 
Cockney — was  unaltered: 

In  six  months  she  married. 

That  hard-hearted  girl; 
It  was  not  a  squire, 

And  it  was  not  a  nearl. 
It  was  not  a  baronet, 

But   a  shade  or   two  wuss — 
'Twas  the  wulgar  old  driver 

Of  a  twoi^enny  'bus. 

But  the  story  of  Polly  is  nothing.  The  merit  of 
the  song  is  its  air,  the  novelty  and  ingenuity  of 
its  chorus,  and  the  praises  of  Polly  which  the 
chorus  embodies.  The  celebration  of  charming 
women  is  never  out  of  date.  Some  are  sung 
about  in  the  Mediterranean,  some  in  Boston,  and 
some  all  the  world  over;  others  give  their  names 
to  roses. 

So   far  had   I   written — and  published — in   a 
(120) 


Harry  Clifton 

weekly  paper,  leaving  open  a  loophole  or  two  for 
kind  and  well-instructed  readers  to  come  to  my 
aid;  and  as  usual  (for  I  am  very  fortunate  in 
these  matters)  they  did  so.  Before  I  was  a 
month  older  I  knew  all.  I  knew  that  the  author, 
composer,  and  singer  of  "Pretty  Polly  Perkins 
of  Paddington  Green"  were  one  and  the  same: 
the  famous  Harry  Clifton;  and  that  Polly  mar- 
ried "not  the  wulgar  old  driver"  of  a  twopenny 
'bus,  as  was  my  mistaken  belief,  but  quite  the 
reverse — that  is  to  say,  the  "bandy-legged  con- 
ductor" of  the  same  vehicle.  A  gentleman  in 
Ireland  was  even  so  obliging  as  to  send  me  an- 
other ballad  by  Harry  Clifton,  on  the  front  of 
which  is  his  portrait  and  on  the  back  a  list  of  his 
triumphs — and  they  make  very  startling  reading, 
at  any  rate  to  me,  who  have  never  been  versatile. 
The  number  of  songs  alone  is  appalling:  no  fewer 
than  thirty  to  which  he  had  also  put  the  music 
and  over  fifty  to  which  the  music  was  composed 
by  others,  but  which  with  acceptance  he  sang. 
Judging  by  the  titles  and  the  first  lines,  which 
in  the  advertisements  are  always  given,  these 
songs  of  the  sixties  were  very  much  better  things 
than  most  of  the  songs  of  our  enlightened  day. 

(121) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

They  seem  to  have  had  character^  a  humorous 
sententiousness,  and  a  genial  view  of  life.  And 
judging  by  his  portrait  on  the  cover,  Harry 
Clifton  was  a  kindly,  honest  type  of  man,  to 
■whom  such  accessories  of  the  modern  comic 
singer's  success  as  the  well-advertised  member- 
ship of  a  night  club,  or  choice  of  an  expensive 
restaurant,  were  a  superfluity. 

Having  read  these  letters  and  the  list  of  songs, 
I  called  on  a  friend  who  was  at  that  moment 
lying  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  from  which,  alas!  he 
never  rose — the  late  George  Bull,  the  drollest 
raconteur  in  London  and  one  of  the  best  of 
men,  who,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  carried 
away  with  him  an  irreplaceable  portion  of  the 
good  humour  of  life;  and  I  found  that  the  name 
of  Harry  Clifton  touched  more  than  one  chord. 
He  had  heard  Harry  Clifton  sing.  As  a  child, 
music-halls  were  barred  to  him,  but  Harry  Clif- 
ton, it  seems,  was  so  humane  and  well-grounded 
— his  fundamentals,  as  Dr.  Johnson  would  say, 
were  so  sound — that  he  sang  also  at  Assembly 
Rooms,  and  there  my  friend  was  taken,  in  his 
tender  years,  by  his  father,  to  hear  him.  There 
he  heard  the  good  fellow,  who  was  conspicuously 
(122) 


Pat  of  jMullingar's  Mare 

jolly  and  most  cordially  Irish,  sing  several  of 
his  great  hits,  and  in  particular  "A  Motto  for 
Every  Man,"  "Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe/'  and 
"Lannigan's  Ball"  (set  to  a  most  admirable  jig 
tune  which  has  become  a  classic),  one  phrase 
from  which  was  adopted  into  the  Irish  vernacu- 
lar as  a  saying:  "Just  in  time  for  Lannigan's 
ball."  Clifton  might  indeed  be  called  the  Tom 
Moore  of  his  da}^,  with  as  large  a  public,  al- 
though not  quite  so  illigant  a  one.  For  where 
Moore  warbled  to  the  ladies,  Clifton  sang  to  the 
people.  Such  a  ballad  as  that  extolling  the  mare 
of  Pat  of  Mullingar  must  have  gone  straight  to 
the  hearts  of  the  countrymen  of  Mr.  Flurry 
Knox: 

They  may  talk  of  Flying  Childers, 

And  the  speed  of  Harkaway, 
Till  the  fancy  it  bewilders 

As  you  list  to  what  they  say. 
But  for  rale  blood  and  beauty. 

You  may  travel  near  and  far — 
The  fastest  mare  you'll  find  belongs 

To  Pat  of  Mullingar. 

An  old  lady  in  Dublin  Avho  remembers  Clifton 
singing  this  song  tells  me  that  the  chorus,  "So 
we'll  trot  along  O,"  was  so  descriptive,  both  in 

(123) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

words  and  music^  that  one  had  from  it  all  the 
sensations  of  a  "joult." 

Harry  Clifton  seems  to  have  had  three  distinct 
lines — the  comic  song,  of  which  "Pretty  Polly 
Perkins"  may  be  considered  the  best  example; 
the  Irish  song;  and  the  Motto  song,  inculcating 
a  sweet  reasonableness  and  content  amid  life's 
many  trials  and  tribulations.  Although,  no 
doubt,  such  optimism  was  somewhat  facile,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  a  little  dose  of  silver- 
lining  advice,  artfully  concealed  in  the  jam  of  a 
good  time  and  a  humorous  twist  of  words,  does 
no  harm  and  may  have  a  beneficial  effect.  The 
chorus  of  "A  Motto  for  Every  Man,"  for  ex- 
ample, runs  thus: 

We  cannot  all  fight  in  this  battle  of  life; 

The  weak  must  go  to  the  wall. 
So  do  to  each  other  the  thing  that  is  right, 

For  there's  room  in  this  world  for  us  all. 

An  easy  sentiment;  but  sufficient  people  in  the 
sixties  were  attracted  by  it  to  flock  to  hear  Harry 
Clifton  all  over  England  and  Ireland,  and  it  is 
probable  that  most  came  away  with  momentarily 
expanded  bosoms,  and  a  few  were  stimulated  to 
follow  its  precepts. 
(124) 


A  Mine  of  Melody 

Looking  down  this  remarkable  list  of  titles  and 
first  lines — which  may  be  only  a  small  portion 
of  Harry  Clifton's  output — I  am  struck  by  his 
cleanliness  and  sanity.  His  record  was  one  of 
which  he  might  well  be  proud,  and  I  think  that 
old  Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  who  had  views  on  the 
makers  o^  a  nation's  ballads,  would  probably 
have  clapped  him  on  the  back. 

Another  thing.  If  many  of  the  tunes  to  these 
songs  are  as  good  as  that  to  "Polly  Perkins," 
Harry  Clifton's  golden  treasury  should  be  worth 
mining.  The  songs  of  yesterday,  when  revived, 
strike  one  as  being  very  antiquated,  and  the 
songs  of  the  day  before  yesterday  also  rarely 
bear  the  test;  but  what  of  the  songs  of  the  six- 
ties.'' Might  their  melodies  not  strike  freshly 
and  alluringly  on  the  ear  to-day?  Another,  and 
to-day  a  better  known,  Harry — Harry  Lauder — 
whose  tunes  are  always  good,  has  confided  to  an 
interviewer  that  he  finds  them  for  the  most  part 
in  old  traditional  collections,  and  gives  them  new 
life.  He  is  wise.  John  Stuart  Mill's  fear  that 
the  combinations  of  the  notes  of  the  piano  might 
be  used  up  was  probably  fantastic,  but  the  ar- 
rival of  the  luckless  day  would  at  any  rate  be  de- 

(125) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

layed  if  we  revived  tunes  that  were  old  enough 
for  that  process;  and  why  should  not  the  works 
of  Harry  Clifton  be  examined  for  the  purpose? 
But  perhaps  they  have  been  .  .  . 

And  then  we  come  back  to  the  marvel,  to  me, 
of  the  man's  variousness.  I  can  plead  guilty  to 
having  written  the  words  of  a  dozen  songs  or  so 
in  as  many  years,  but  to  put  two  notes  of  music 
together  is  beyond  me,  and  to  sing  anything  in 
tune  would  be  an  impossibility,  even  if  I  had  the 
assurance  to  stand  up  in  public  for  that  purpose. 
Yet  Harry  Clifton,  who,  in  the  picture  on  the 
cover  of  the  song  which  the  gentleman  in  Ireland 
sent  me,  does  not  look  at  all  like  some  brazen 
lion  comiques,  not  only  could  sing  acceptably  but 
write  good  words  and  good  music.  I  hope  he 
grew  prosperous,  although  there  is  some  evidence 
that  his  native  geniality  was  also  a  stumbling- 
block.  Your  jolly  good  fellows  so  often  are  the 
victims  of  their  jolly  goodness.  Nor  had  the 
palmy  days  of  comic  singing  then  begun.  There 
were  then  no  ^£300  a  week  bribes  to  lure  a 
comic  singer  into  revue;  but  the  performers,  I 
guess,  were  none  the  worse  for  receiving  a  wage 
more  in  accordance  with  true  proportion.  I  say 
(126) 


£300  a  Week 

true  proportion,  because  I  shall  never  feel  it 
right  that  music-hall  comedians  should  receive  a 
bigger  salary  than  a  Prime  Minister;  at  least, 
not  until  they  sing  better  songs  and  take  a  finer 
view  of  life  in  their  "patter"  than  most  of  them 
now  do. 


"(IS?)" 


ARTS  OF  INVASION 

ALL  people  living  in  the  country  are  liable 
to  be  asked  if  they  do  not  know  of  "some 
nice  little  place  that  would  just  suit  us."  "For 
week-ends^  chiefly" — the  inquirer  usually  adds. 
"A  kind  of  pied-a-terre,  you  know" — the  inquirer 
always  adds. 

Cautious,  self-protective  people  answer  no. 
Foolish,  gregarious  people  actually  try  to  help- 
Addressing  that  large  and  growing  class,  the 
pied-a-terre  hunters,  not  as  a  potential  neigh- 
bour, but  as  a  mere  counsellor  and  very  platonic 
friend,  I  would  say  that  I  have  recently  dis- 
covered two  ways  of  acquiring  country  places, 
both  of  which,  although  no  doubt  neither  is  in- 
fallible, have  from  time  to  time  succeeded. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  a  fruitless  day  on  the 
same  quest  that  I  hit  upon  the  first.  After  tramp- 
ing many  miles  in  vain,  I  was  fortunate  in  get- 
ting a  fly  at  the  village  inn  to  drive  me  to  the 
(128) 


The  Unsettler 

nearest  station.  I  don't  say  I  had  seen  nothing 
I  liked,  but  nothing  that  was  empty.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  had  seen  one  very  charming  place, 
but  every  windovt^  had  a  curtain  in  it  and  the 
chimneys  were  sending  up  their  confounded 
smoke.  In  other  words,  it  was,  to  use  one  of  the 
most  offensive  words  in  the  language,  occupied. 
Hence  I  was  in  a  bad  temper.  None  the  less, 
when  a  little  man  in  black  suddenly  appeared 
before  me  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  share  my 
cab  (and  its  fare),  I  agreed.  He  began  to  talk 
at  once,  and  having  disposed  of  the  weather  and 
other  topics  on  which  one  can  be  strictly  and 
politely  neutral,  he  said  that  his  business  took 
him  a  good  deal  into  unfamiliar  places. 

Being  aware  that  he  wished  it,  I  asked  him 
what  his  business  was. 

"I'm  an  unsettler,"  he  said. 

"An  unsettler?" 

"Yes.  It's  not  a  profession  that  we  talk  much 
about,  because  the  very  essence  of  it  is  secrecy, 
but  it's  genuine  enough,  and  there  are  not  a  few 
of  us.  Of  course,  we  do  other  things  as  well, 
such  as  insurance  agency,  but  unsettling  pays 
best." 

(129) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

"Tell  me  about  it/'  I  said. 

"Well/'  he  explained,  "it's  like  this.  Say 
you  are  thinking  of  moving  and  you  want  an- 
other house.  You  can't  find  an  empty  one  that 
you  like,  of  course.  No  one  can.  But  you  dif- 
fer from  other  persons  in  being  unwilling  to 
make  a  compromise.  You  will  either  wait  till  you 
find  one  that  you  do  like,  or  you  will  go  without. 
Meanwhile  you  see  plenty  of  occupied  houses 
that  you  like,  just  as  every  one  else  does.  But 
you  differ  from  other  persons  in  being  unwilling 
to  believe  that  you  can't  have  what  you  want. 
Do  you  follow  me.''" 

Naturally  I  followed  him  minutely,  because 
he  was  describing  my  own  case. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  continued.  "This  makes 
the  unsettler's  opportunity.  You  return  to  the 
agent  and  teD  him  that  the  only  house  you  liked 
is   (say)  a  white  one  at  East  Windles. 

"'It  was  not  one  on  your  list,*  you  say;  'in 
fact,  it  was  occupied.  It  is  the  house  on  the  left, 
in  its  own  grounds,  just  as  you  enter  the  village. 
There  is  a  good  lawn,  and  a  wonderful  clipped 
yew  hedge.' 
(130) 


The  Dislodgment  of  Ladies 

"  'Oh,  yes/  says  the  agent,  'I  know  it :  it 
used  to  be  the  Rectory/ 

"  'Who  lives  there?'  you  ask. 

"  'An  old  lady  named  Burgess/  says  the  agent 
— Miss  Burgess.' 

"  'Would  she  leave  ?'  you  ask. 

"  'I  should  very  much  doubt  it/  says  the  agent, 
'but  I  could,  of  course,  sound  her.' 

"  'I'll  give  you  tvpenty-five  pounds/  you  say,  'if 
you  can  induce  her  to  quit.'     And  off  you  go. 

"It  is  then  that  the  unsettler  comes  in.  The 
agent  sends  for  me  and  tells  me  the  story;  and 
I  get  to  work.  The  old  lady  has  got  to  be  dis- 
lodged. Now  what  is  it  that  old  ladies  most 
dislike?  I  ask  myself.  It  depends,  of  course; 
but  on  general  principles  a  scare  about  the  water 
is  safe,  and  a  rumour  of  ghosts  is  safe.  The 
water-scare  upsets  the  mistress,  the  ghost-scare 
upsets  the  maids;  and  when  one  can't  get  maids, 
the  country  becomes  a  bore.  As  it  is,  she  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  keeping  them,  because 
there's  no  cinema  near. 

"Very  well,  then.  Having  decided  on  my  line 
of  action,  I  begin  to  spread  reports — very  cau- 
tiously, of  course,  but  with  careful  calculation, 

(131) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

and  naturally  never  appearing  myself;  and  grad- 
ually, bit  by  bit,  Miss  Burgess  takes  a  dislike  to 
the  place.  Not  always,  of  course.  Some  tenants 
are  most  unreasonable.  But  sooner  or  later  most 
of  them  fall  to  the  bait,  and  you  get  the  house. 
That's  my  profession." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  think  it's  a  blackguard 
one." 

"Oh,  sir!"  he  replied.     "Live  and  let  live." 

"It's  funny,  all  the  same,"  I  added,  "that  I 
should  have  run  across  you,  because  I've  been 
looking  for  a  house  for  some  time,  and  the  only 
one  I  liked  was  occupied." 

He  pulled  out  a  pocket-book.  "Yes?"  he  said, 
moistening  his  pencil. 

But  that  is  enough  of  him. 

So  much  for  my  first  way,  which,  as  I  happen 
to  know,  has  succeeded,  at  any  rate  once.  Now 
for  the  other,  which  is  less  material.  In  fact, 
some  people  might  call  it  supernatural. 

I  was  telling  a  lady  about  my  friend  the  un- 
settler  and  his  methods;  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  be  in  the  least  impressed. 

"All  very  well,"  she  said;  "but  there's  a  more 
efficient  and  more  respectable  way  than  that. 
(132) 


A  Pied-a-terre 

And/'  she  added,  with  a  significant  glance  at  her 
husband  and  not  without  triumph,  "I  happen  to 
know." 

She  sat  at  the  dinner-table  in  the  old  farm- 
house— "modernized,"  as  the  agents  have  it,  "yet 
redolent  of  old-world  charm."  By  modernized 
they  mean  that  the  rightful  occupiers — the  sim- 
ple agriculturists — had  gone  for  ever,  and  well- 
to-do  artistic  Londoners  had  made  certain 
changes  to  fit  it  for  a  week-end  retreat.  In 
other  words,  it  had  become  a  pied-a-terre.  Where 
the  country  folk  for  whom  all  these  and  smaller 
cottages  were  built  now  live,  who  shall  say.'' 
Probably  in  mean  streets;  anyway,  not  here. 
The  exterior  remains  often  the  same,  but  in- 
side, instead  of  the  plain  furniture  of  the  peas- 
antry, one  finds  wicker  arm-chairs  and  sofa- 
chairs,  all  the  right  books  and  weekly  papers, 
and  cigarettes. 

This  particular  farm-house  was  charming.  An 
ingle-nook.  Heal  furniture,  old-pattern  cretonnes 
and  chintzes,  an  etching  or  two,  a  Japanese  print 
or  two,  a  reproduction  of  a  John,  the  poems  of 
Mr.    Masefield   and    Rupert    Brooke,    a    French 

(133) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

novel,  the  New  Statesman,  and  where  once  had 
been  a  gun-rack  a  Delia  Robbia  Madonna. 

"It's  delightful/'  I  said;  adding,  as  one  al- 
ways does:     "How  did  you  get  to  hear  of  it?" 

"Hearing  of  it  wasn't  difficult/'  she  said,  "be- 
cause we'd  known  about  it  for  years.  The  trou- 
ble was  to  get  it." 

"It  wasn't  empty,  then?"  I  replied. 

"No.  There  was  a  Mr.  Broom  here.  We 
asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  go,  and  he  said  No. 
We  made  him  an  offer,  and  he  refused.  He  wa3 
most  unreasonable."  (It  was  the  same  word  that 
the  unsettler  had  used.) 

I  agreed:     "Most." 

"So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  will  his 
departure." 

"Will?" 

"Yes.  Concentrate  our  thoughts  on  his  giving 
notice,  and  invite  our  friends  to  do  the  same. 
I  wrote  scores  of  letters  all  round,  impressing 
this  necessity,  this  absolute,  sacred  duty,  on 
them.  I  asked  them  to  make  a  special  effort  on 
the  night  of  March  18th,  at  eleven  o'clock,  when 
we  should  all  be  free.  It  sounds  rather  dreadful, 
but  I  always  hold  that  the  people  who  want  a 
(134) 


Conspirators 

house  most  are  best  fitted  to  have  it.     One  can't 
be  too  nice  in  such  matters." 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  you'll  hardly  believe  it — and  I  shan't 
be  a  bit  vexed  if  you  don't — but  on  the  morning 
of  the  20th  of  March  I  had  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Broom  saying  that  he  had  decided  to  leave,  and 
we  could  have  the  first  call  on  his  house.  It  was 
too  wonderful.  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I 
felt  a  little  ashamed.  I  felt  it  had  been  too  easy." 

"It  is  certainly  a  dangerous  power,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  she  continued,  "I  hurried  round  to 
see  him  before  he  could  change  his  mind.  'Do 
you  really  want  to  leave?'  I  asked  him.  'Yes,' 
he  said.  'Why?'  I  asked.  'Well,'  he  said,  'I 
can't  tell  you  why.  I  don't  know.  All  I  know 
is  that  all  of  a  sudden  I  have  got  tired  and  feel 
vaguely  that  I  want  a  change.  I  am  quite  sure 
I  am  making  a  mistake  and  I'll  never  find  so 
good  a  place;  but  there  it  is:  I'm  going.'  I  as- 
sure you  I  felt  for  a  moment  inclined  to  back  out 
altogether  and  advise  him  to  stay  on.  I  was 
even  half  disposed  to  tell  him  the  truth;  but  I 
pulled  myself  together.  And — well,  here  we 
are!" 

(135) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"It's  amazing,"  I  said.  "You  must  either  have 
very  strong-minded  friends,  or  the  stars  have 
played  very  oddly  into  your  hands,  or  both." 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "but  there's  a  little  difficulty. 
One  has  to  be  so  careful  in  this  life." 

"One  has,"  I  fervently  agreed.  "But  what  is 
it?" 

"Some  of  my  friends,"  she  explained,  "didn't 
quite  play  the  game.  Instead  of  willing,  as  I 
explicitly  indicated,  that  our  Mr.  Broom  should 
leave  the  Manor  Farm,  they  willed  merely  that 
Mr.  Broom  should  leave  his  house,  and  the  result 
is  that  all  kinds  of  Mr.  Brooms  all  over  the 
country  have  been  giving  notice.  I  heard  of 
another  only  this  morning.  In  fact,  our  Mr. 
Broom's  brother  was  one  of  them.  It's  a  very 
perilous  as  well  as  a  useful  gift,  you  see.  But 
we've  got  the  farm,  and  that's  the  main  thing." 

She  smiled  the  smile  of  a  conqueror. 

"But,"  remarked  another  of  the  guests,  who 
had  told  us  that  she  was  looking  for  a  pied-a- 
terre,  "there's  a  catch  somewhere,  isn't  there? 
Don't  you  see  any  weak  point?" 

Our  hostess  smiled  less  confidently.     "How?" 
she  asked  uneasily. 
(136) 


Perils  of  WiU 

"Well,"  the  guest  continued,  "suppose  ...  It 
couldn't,  I  mean,  be  in  better  hands.  For  the 
moment.  But  suppose  some  one  else  wanted  it? 
Take  care.  Willing  is  a  game  that  two  can  play 
at." 

"You  don't  mean }"  our  hostess  faltered. 

"I  do,  most  certainly,"  the  guest  replied.  "Di- 
rectly I  go  away  from  here  I  shall  make  a  list 
of  my  most  really  obstinate,  pushful  friends  to 
help  me." 

"But  that  would  be  most  unfair,"  said  our 
hostess. 

"No  one  is  fair  when  hunting  the  pied-a- 
terre,"  I  reminded  her. 


(137) 


THE  MARBLE  ARCH  AND  PETER 
MAGNUS 

FINDING  myself  (not  often  in  London  on 
the  day  that  comes  so  mercifully  between 
the  Saturday  and  Monday)  beside  the  enisled 
Marble  Arch^  I  spent  half  an  hour  in  listening 
to  the  astonishing  oratory  that  was  going  on 
there.  Although  I  had  not  done  this  for  many, 
many  years,  there  was  so  little  change  in  the 
proceedings  that  I  gained  a  new  impression  of 
perpetual  motion.  The  same — or  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  the  same — leather  lungs  were  still 
at  it,  either  arranging  the  Deity  or  commending 
His  blessed  benefactions.  As  invariably  of  old, 
a  Hindu  was  present;  but  whether  he  was  the 
Hindu  of  the  Middle  Ages  or  a  new  Hindu,  I 
cannot  say.  One  proselytizing  Hindu  is  strangely 
like  another.  His  matter  was  familiar  also.  The 
only  novelty  that  I  noticed  was  a  little  band  of 
American  evangelists  (America  being  so  little  in 
(138) 


Hyde  Park  Orators 

need  of  spiritual  assistance  that  these  have  set- 
tled in  London)  in  the  attire  more  or  less  of  the 
constabulary  of  New  York,  the  spokesman  among 
whom,  at  the  moment  I  joined  his  audience,  was 
getting  into  rather  deep  water  in  an  effort  to  fit 
the  kind  of  halo  acceptable  to  modern  evangel- 
icals on  the  head  of  Martin  Luther. 

As  I  passed  from  group  to  group,  with  each 
step  a  certain  inevitable  question  grew  more 
insistent  upon  a  reply;  and  so,  coming  to  one 
of  London's  founts  of  wisdom  and  knowledge, 
I  put  it  to  him.  "I  suppose,"  I  said,  indicating 
the  various  speakers  with  a  semicircular  gesture, 
"they  don't  do  all  this  for  nothing?"  The  po- 
liceman closed  one  eye.  "Not  they,"  he  an- 
swered; "they've  all  got  sympathizers  some- 
where." 

Well,  live  and  let  live  is  a  good  maxim, 
thought  I,  and  there  surely  never  was  such  a 
wonderful  world  as  this,  and  so  I  came  away; 
and  it  was  then  that  something  occurred  which 
(for  everything  so  far  has  been  sheer  prologue) 
led  to  these  remarks.  I  was  passing  the  crowd 
about  one  of  the  gentlemen — the  more  brazenly 
confident  one — who  deny  the  existence  of  a  be- 

(139) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

neficent  Creator,  when  the  words,  "Looking  like  a 
dying  duck  in  a  thunderstorm/'  clanged  out, 
followed  by  a  roar  of  delighted  laughter;  and 
in  a  flash  I  remembered  precisely  where  I  was 
when,  forty  and  more  years  ago,  I  first  heard 
from  a  nursemaid  that  ancient  simile  and  was  so 
struck  by  its  humour  that  I  added  it  to  my 
childish  repertory.  And  from  this  recollection 
I  passed  on  to  ponder  upon  the  melancholy 
truth  that  originality  will  ever  be  an  unpopular 
quality.  For  here  were  two  or  three  hundred 
people  absolutely  and  hilariously  satisfied  with 
such  a  battered  and  moth-eaten  phrase,  even 
to-day,  and  perfectly  content  that  the  orator 
should  have  so  little  respect  either  for  himself 
or  for  them  that  he  saw  no  disgrace  in  thus 
evading  his  duty  and  inventing  something  new. 
But  was  that  his  duty,''  That  was  my  next 
thought;  and  a  speech  by  that  eternally  veracious 
type  whom  INIr,  Pickwick  met  a  Ipswich,  and 
who,  for  all  his  brief  passage  across  the  stage  of 
literature,  is  more  real  than  many  a  prominent 
hero  of  many  chapters,  came  to  mind  to  answer 
it.  I  refer  to  Mr.  Peter  Magnus,  who,  when 
Mr.  Pickwick  described  Sam  Weller  as  not  only 
(140) 


The  .Wiser  Way 

his  servant  and  almost  friend,  but  an  "original," 
replied  in  these  deathless  words:  "I  am  not 
fond  of  anything  original;  I  don't  like  it;  don't 
see  any  necessity  for  it."  And  that's  just  it. 
The  tribe  of  Magnus  is  very  large;  it  doesn't 
like  originality,  and  doesn't  see  any  necessity 
for  it — which,  translated  into  the  modern  idiom, 
would  run  "has  no  use  for  it."  Hence  the  free- 
thinker was  right,  and  the  longer  he  continues  to 
repose  his  faith  in  ancient  comic  cliches  the 
greater  will  be  his  success. 

And  then  I  thought  for  the  millionth  time 
what  an  awful  mistake  it  is  to  be  fastidious. 
Truly  wise  people — and  by  wisdom  I  mean  an 
aggregation  of  those  qualities  and  acceptances 
and  compromises  that  make  for  a  fairly  unruffled 
progress  through  this  difficult  life — truly  wise 
people  are  not  fastidious.  They  are  easily 
pleased,  they  are  not  critical,  and — and  this  is 
very  important — they  allow  of  no  exceptions 
among  human  beings.  Originals  bore  them  as 
much  as  they  did  Mr.  ^lagnus.  One  of  the  as- 
tutest  men  that  I  know  has  achieved  a  large 
measure  of  his  prosperity  and  general  content- 
ment  by   behaving   always    as    though    all    men 

(141) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

were  alike.  Because,  although  of  course  they 
are  not  alike,  the  differences  are  too  trifling  to 
matter.  He  flatters  each  with  the  same  assiduity 
and  grossness,  with  the  result  that  they  all  be- 
come his  useful  allies.  Those  that  do  not  swal- 
low the  mixture,  and  resent  it,  he  merely  accuses 
of  insincerity  or  false  modesty;  yet  they  are  his 
allies  too,  because,  although  they  cannot  accept 
his  methods,  being  a  little  uncertain  as  to  whether 
his  intentions  may  not  have  been  genuinely  kind, 
or  his  judgment  honestly  at  fault,  they  give  him 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 


(142) 


THE  OLDEST  JOKE 

MANY  investigators  have  speculated  as  to 
the  character  of  the  first  joke;  and  as 
speculation  must  our  efforts  remain.  But  I  per- 
sonally have  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  the  subject- 
matter  of  that  distant  pleasantry:  it  was  the 
face  of  the  other  person  involved.  I  don't  say 
that  Adam  was  caustic  about  Eve's  face  or  Eve 
about  Adam's:  that  is  improbable.  Nor  does 
matrimonial  invective  even  now  ordinarily  take 
this  form.  But  after  a  while^  after  cousins  had 
come  into  the  world,  the  facial  jest  began;  and 
by  the  time  of  Noah  and  his  sons  the  riot  was  in 
full  swing.  In  every  rough  and  tumble  among 
the  children  of  Ham,  Shem,  and  Japhet,  I  feel 
certain  that  crude  and  candid  personalities  fell  to 
the  lot,  at  any  rate,  of  the  little  Shems. 

So  was  it  then;  so  is  it  still  to-day.     No  jests 
are  so  rich  as  those  that  bear  upon  the  unloveli- 

(143) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

ness  of  features  not  our  own.  The  tiniest  street 
urchins  in  dispute  always — sooner  or  later — de- 
vote their  retorts  to  the  distressing  physiognomy 
of  the  foe.  Not  only  are  they  conforming  to  the 
ancient  convention^  but  they  show  sagacity  too, 
for  to  sum  up  an  opponent  as  "Face,"  "Facey," 
or  "Funny  Face,"  is  to  spike  his  gvm.  There  is 
no  reply  but  the  cowardly  tu  quoque.  He  can- 
not say,  "My  face  is  not  comic,  it  is  handsome"; 
because  that  does  not  touch  the  root  of  the  mat-< 
ter.  The  root  of  the  matter  is  your  opinion  of 
his  face  as  deplorable. 

Not  only  is  the  recognition  of  what  is  odd  in 
an  opponent's  countenance  of  this  priceless  value 
in  ordinary  quarrels  among  the  young  and  tlie 
ill-mannered  (just  as  abuse  of  the  opposing 
counsel  is  the  best  way  of  covering  the  poverty 
of  one's  own  case  at  law),  but  the  music-hall 
humourist  has  no  easier  or  surer  road  to  the 
risibilities  of  most  of  his  audience.  Jokes  about 
faces  never  fail  and  are  never  threadbare.  Some- 
times I  find  myself  listening  to  one  who  has  been 
called — possibly  the  label  was  self-imposed — the 
Prime  Minister  of  Mirth,  and  he  invariably  en- 
larges upon  the  quaintness  of  somebody's  fea- 
(144) 


The  Oldest  Joke 

tures,  often,  for  he  is  the  soul  of  impartiality, 
his  own ;  and  the  first  time,  now  thirty  years  ago, 
that  I  ever  entered  a  music-hall  (the  tiny  stuffy 
old  Oxford  at  Brighton,  where  the  chairman  with 
the  dyed  hair — it  was  more  purple  than  black — 
used  to  sit  amid  a  little  company  of  bloods  whose 
proud  privilege  it  was  to  pay  for  his  refresh- 
ment), another  George,  whose  surname  was  Beau- 
champ,  was  singing  about  a  siren  into  whose 
clutches  he  had  or  had  not  fallen,  who  had 

an  indiarubber  lip 
Like  the  rudder  of  a  ship. 

— So  you  see  there  is  complete  continuity. 

But  the  best  example  of  this  branch  of  humour 
is  beyond  all  question  that  of  the  Two  Macs, 
whose  influence,  long  though  it  is  since  they 
eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  the  nation  by  vanishing, 
is  still  potent.  Though  gone  they  still  jest;  or, 
at  any  rate,  their  jests  did  not  all  vanish  with 
them.  The  incorrigible  veneration  for  what  is 
antique  displayed  by  low  comedians  takes  care  of 
that.  "I  saw  your  wife  at  the  masked  ball  last 
night,"  the  first  Mac  would  say,  in  his  rich 
brogue.  "My  wife  was  at  the  ball  last  night," 
the  other   would   reply   in   a   brogue   of   deeper 

(145) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

richness^  "but  it  wasn't  a  masked  ball."  The 
first  Mac  would  then  express  an  overwhelming 
surprise,  as  he  countered  with  the  devastating 
question,  "Was  that  her  face?" 

"You're  not  two-faced,  anyway.  I'll  say  that 
for  you/'  was  the  apparently  magnanimous  con- 
cession made  by  one  comedian  to  another  in  a 
recent  farcical  play.  The  other  was  beginning  to 
express  his  gratification  when  the  speaker  con- 
tinued. "If  you  were,  you  wouldn't  have  come 
out  with  that  one."  Again,  you  observe,  there 
is  no  answer  to  this  kind  of  attack.  Hence,  I 
suppose,  its  popularity.  And  yet  perhaps  to  take 
refuge  in  a  smug  sententiousness,  and  remark 
crisply,  "Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,"  should 
now  and  then  be  useful.  But  it  requires  some 
self-esteem. 

There  is  no  absolute  need,  however,  for  the 
face  joke  to  be  applied  to  others  to  be  success- 
ful. Since,  in  spite  of  the  complexion  creams, 
"plumpers,"  and  nose-machines  advertised  in  the 
papers,  faces  will  continue  to  be  here  and  there 
somewhat  Gothic,  the  wise  thing  for  their  own- 
ers is  to  accept  them  and  think  of  other  things, 
or  console  themselves  before  the  unflattering 
(146) 


President  Wilson 

mirror  with  the  memory  of  those  mortals  who 
have  been  both  quaint-looking  and  gifted.  Wiser 
still  perhaps  to  make  a  little  capital  out  of  the 
affliction.  Public  men  who  are  able  to  make  a 
jest  of  the  homeliness  of  their  features  never 
lose  by  it.  President  Wilson's  public  recital  of 
the  famous  lines  on  his  countenance  (which  I 
personally  find  by  no  means  unprepossessing) 
did  much  to  increase  his  popularity. 

As  a  beauty  I  am  not  a  star. 

There  are  others  more  handsome  by  far. 

But  my  face,  I  don't  mind  it, 

For  I  keep  behind  it; 
It's  the  people  in  front  get  the  jar. 

And  an  English  bishop,  or  possibly  dean,  came, 
at  last,  very  near  earth  when  in  a  secular  address 
he  repeated  his  retort  to  the  lady  who  had  com- 
mented upon  his  extraordinary  plainness:  "Ah, 
but  you  should  see  my  brother."  There  is  also 
the  excellent  story  of  the  ugly  man  before  the 
camera,  who  was  promised  by  the  photographer 
that  he  should  have  justice  done  to  him.  "Jus- 
tice!" he  exclaimed.  "I  don't  want  justice;  I 
want  mercy." 

The  great  face  joke,  as  I  say,  obviously  came 

(147) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

first.  Because  there  were  in  the  early  days 
none  of  the  materials  for  the  other  staple  quips 
— such  as  alcohol,  and  sausages,  and  wives'  moth- 
ers. Faces,  however,  were  always  there.  And 
not  even  yet  have  the  later  substitutes  ousted  it. 
Just  as  Shakespeare's  orator,  "when  he  is  out," 
spits,  so  does  the  funny  man,  in  similar  difficul- 
ties, if  he  is  wise,  say,  "Do  you  call  that  a  face  ?" 
and  thus  collect  his  thoughts  for  fresh  sallies. 
If  all  "dials"  were  identical,  Mr.  George  Graves, 
for  example,  would  be  a  stage  bankrupt;  for, 
resourceful  as  he  is  in  the  humour  of  quizzical 
disapproval,  the  vagaries  of  facial  oddity  are  his 
foundation  stone. 

Remarkable  as  are  the  heights  of  grotesque 
simile  to  which  all  the  Georges  have  risen  in 
this  direction,  it  is,  oddly  enough,  to  the  other 
and  gentler  sex  that  the  classic  examples  (in  my 
experience)  belong.  At  a  dinner-party  given  by 
a  certain  hospitable  lady  who  remained  something 
of  an  enfante  terrible  to  the  end  of  her  long  life, 
she  drew  the  attention  of  one  of  her  guests, 
by  no  means  too  cautiously,  to  the  features  of 
another  guest,  a  bishop  of  great  renown.  "Isn't 
his  face,"  she  asked,  in  a  deathless  sentence, 
(148) 


The  Oldest  Joke 

"like  the  inside  of  an  elephant's  foot?"  I  have 
not  personally  the  honour  of  this  divine's  ac- 
quaintance, but  all  my  friends  who  have  met 
or  seen  him  assure  me  that  the  similitude  is 
exact.  Another  lady,  happily  still  living,  said 
of  the  face  of  an  acquaintance,  that  it  was  "not 
so  much  a  face,  as  a  part  of  her  person  which  she 
happened  to  leave  uncovered,  by  which  her 
friends  were  able  to  recognize  her."  A  third, 
famous  for  her  swift  analyses,  said  that  a  certain 
would-be  beauty  might  have  a  title  to  good  looks 
but  for  "a  rush  of  teeth  to  the  head."  I  do  not 
quote  these  admirable  remarks  merely  as  a  proof 
of  woman's  natural  kindliness,  but  to  show  how 
even  among  the  elect — for  all  three  speakers  are 
of  more  than  common  culture — the  face  joke 
holds  sway. 


(149) 


THE  PUTTENHAMS 

I 

From    The   Mustershire   Herald   and   Oldcaster 
Advertiser 

THE  new  volume  of  The  Mustershire 
Archaeological  Society's  Records  is,  as  usu- 
al, full  of  varied  fare.  .  .  .  But  for  good  Old- 
castrians  the  most  interesting  article  is  a  minute 
account  of  the  Puttenham  family,  so  well  known 
in  the  town  for  many  generations,  from  its  ear- 
liest traceable  date  in  the  seventeenth  century.  It 
is  remarkable  for  how  long  the  Puttenhams  were 
content  to  be  merely  small  traders  and  so  forth, 
until  quite  recently  the  latent  genius  of  the  blood 
declared  itself  simultaneously  in  the  constructive 
ability  of  our  own  millionaire  ex-townsman.  Sir 
Jonathan  Puttenham  (who  married  a  daughter 
of  Lord  Hammerton),  and  in  the  world-famous 
(150) 


The  Putteiiliams 

skill  of  the  great  chemist.  Sir  Victor  Puttenham, 
the  discoverer  of  the  Y-rays,  who  still  has  his 
country  home  on  our  borders.  The  simile  of  the 
oak  and  the  acorn  at  once  springs  to  mind." 

II 

Miss  Enid  Daubene_y,  who  is  staying  at  Sir 
Jonathan  Puttenham's,  to  her  Sister 

My  dear  Fluffety, — There  are  wigs  on  the 
green  here,  I  can  tell  you.  Aunt  Virginia  is 
furious  about  a  genealogy  of  the  Puttenham 
family  which  has  appeared  in  the  county's 
archasological  records.  It  goes  back  ever  so  far, 
and  derives  our  revered  if  somewhat  stodgy  and 
not-too-generous  uncle-by-marriage  from  one  of 
the  poorest  bunches  of  ancestors  a  knight  of 
industry  ever  had.  Aunt  Virginia  won't  see  that, 
from  such  loins,  the  farther  the  spring  the  great- 
er the  honour,  and  the  poor  man  has  had  no 
peace  and  the  article  is  to  be  suppressed.  But 
since  these  things  are  published  only  for  sub- 
scribers and  the  volume  is  now  out,  of  course 
nothing  can  be  done.  Please  telegraph  that  you 
can't  spare  me  any  longer,  for  the  meals  here 

(151) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

are   getting  impossible.      Not  even   the  peaches 
compensate. — Your  devoted  Enid 


III 

Sir  Jonathan  Puttenham  to  the  Rev.  Stacey 
Morris,  Editor  of  The  Mustershire  Archae- 
ological Society's  Records 

Dear  Sir, — I  wish  to  utter  a  protest  against 
what  I  consider  a  serious  breach  of  etiquette. 
In  the  new  volume  of  your  Records,  you  print 
an  article  dealing  with  the  history  from  remote 
times  of  the  family  of  which  I  am  a  member, 
and  possibly  the  best-known  member  at  the  pres- 
ent day.  The  fact  that  that  family  is  of  humble 
origin  is  nothing  to  me.  What  I  object  to  is 
the  circumstance  that  you  should  publish  this 
material,  most  of  which  is  of  very  little  interest 
to  the  outside  world,  without  first  ascertaining 
my  views  on  the  subject.  I  may  now  tell  you 
that  I  object  so  strongly  to  the  publication  that 
I  count  on  you  to  secure  its  withdrawal. — I  am. 
Yours  faithfully, 

Jonathan  Puttenham 
(152) 


The  Puttenliams 


IV 


Horace  Vicary,  M.D.,  of  Southbridge,  to  his 
old   friend  the   Rev.   Stacey   Morris 

Dear  Morris, — It's  a  good  volume,  take  it 
all  round.  But  what  has  given  me,  in  my  un- 
regeneracy,  the  greatest  pleasure  is  the  article 
on  the  Puttenhams.  For  years  the  Puttenhams 
here  have  been  putting  on  airs  and  holding  their 
noses  higher  than  the  highest,  and  it  is  not  only 
(as  they  say  doubly  of  nibs)  grateful  and  com- 
forting, but  a  boon  and  a  blessing,  to  find  that 
one  of  their  not  too  remote  ancestors  kept  a 
public-house,  and  another  was  a  tinsmith.  And 
I  fancy  I  am  not  alone  in  my  satisfaction. 

Yours,  H.  V. 


Sir  Victor  Puttenham,  F.R.S.,  to  the  Editor  of 
The  Mustershire  Archceological  Society's  Rec- 
ords 

Dear  Sir, — As  probably  the  most  widely- 
known  member  of  the  Puttenham  family  at  the 
present  moment,  may  I  thank  you  for  the  gener- 

(153) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

ous  space  which  you  have  accorded  to  our  history. 
To  what  extent  it  will  be  readable  by  strangers 
I  cannot  say,  but  to  me  it  is  intensely  interesting, 
and  if  you  can  arrange  for  a  few  dozen  reprints 
in  paper  wrappers  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  them. 
I  had,  of  course,  some  knowledge  of  my  ances- 
tors, but  I  had  no  idea  that  we  were  quite  such 
an  undistinguished  rabble  of  groundlings  for  so 
long.  That  drunken  whipper-in  to  Lord  Dash- 
ingham  in  the  seventeen-seventies  particularly 
delights  me. — I  am. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Victor  Puttenham 

VI 

From  Sir  Jonathan  Puttenham  to  the  Editor  of 
The  Mustershire  Herald  and  Oldcaster  Adver- 
tiser 

Dear  Sir, — I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  make 
no  more  references  in  The  Herald  to  the  new 
Mustershire  Archceological  Records'  article  on 
the  Puttenhams.  It  is  not  that  it  lays  emphasis 
on  the  humble  origin  of  that  family.  That  is 
nothing  to  me.  But  I  am  at  the  moment  en- 
(154) 


The  Puttenhams 

gaged  in  a  correspondence  with  the  Editor  on 
the  propriety  of  publishing  private  or  semi-pri- 
vate records  of  this  character  without  first  ask- 
ing permission,  and  as  he  will  possibly  see  the 
advisability  of  withdrawing  the  article  in  ques- 
tion there  should  be  as  little  reference  to  it  in 
the  Press  as  possible. — I  am. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Jonathan   Puttenham 

vn 

The  Rev.  Stacey  Morris  to  Sir  Jonathan 
Puttenham 

The  Editor  of  The  Muster  shire  Archceological 
Society's  Records  begs  to  acknowledge  Sir  Jona- 
than Puttenham's  letter  of  the  15th  inst.  He 
regrets  that  the  publication  of  the  Puttenham 
genealogy  should  have  so  offended  Sir  Jonathan, 
but  would  point  out,  firstly,  that  it  has  for  years 
been  a  custom  of  these  Records  to  include  such 
articles;  secondly,  that  the  volume  has  now  been 
delivered  to  all  the  Society's  members;  thirdly, 
that  there  are  members  of  the  Puttenham  family 
who  do  not  at  all  share  Sir  Jonathan's  views; 

(155) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

and,  fourthly,  that  if  such  views  obtained  gener- 
ally the  valuable  and  interesting  pursuit  of 
genealogy,  of  which  our  President,  Lord  Ham- 
merton,  to  name  no  others,  is  so  ardent  a  patron, 
would  cease  to  be  practised. 


VIII 


Miss  Lydia  Puttenham,  of  "Weald  View,"  Rus- 
per  Common,  Tunbridge  Wells,  to  Lady  Put- 
tenham 

Dear  Cousin  Mildred, — I  wonder  if  Sir  Vic- 
tor has  seen  the  article  on  our  family  in  The 
Archaeological  Records.  I  am  so  vexed  about  it, 
not  only  for  myself  and  all  of  us,  but  particu- 
larly for  him  and  you.  It  is  not  right  that  a 
busy  man  working  for  humanity,  as  he  is  doing, 
should  be  worried  like  that.  Indeed  I  feel  so 
strongly  about  it  that  I  have  sent  in  my  resigna- 
tion as  a  member  of  the  Society.  Wliy  such 
things  should  be  printed  at  all  I  cannot  see.  It 
is  most  unfair  and  unnecessary  to  go  into  such 
details,  nor  can  there  be  the  slightest  reason  for 
doing  so,  for  the  result  is  the  dullest  reading. 
(156) 


The  Puttenliams 

Perhaps  Sir  Victor  could  get  it  stopped.     Again 
expressing  my  sympathy,  I  am. 

Yours   affectionately, 

Lydia   Puttenham 


IS 

The  Rev.   Stacey  Morris  to  Ernest  Burroughs, 
the  compiler  of  the  Puttenham  genealogy 

My  dear  Burroughs, — We  are  threatened 
with  all  kinds  of  penalties  by  Sir  Jonathan  Put- 
tenham, the  great  contractor,  over  your  seamy 
revelations.  It  is  odd  how  differently  these 
things  are  taken,  for  the  other  great  Puttenham, 
the  chemist,  Sir  Viator,  is  delighted  and  is  dis- 
tributing copies  broadcast.  Equal  forms  of  snob- 
bishness, a  Thackeray  would  perhaps  say.  But 
my  purpose  in  writing  is  to  say  that  I  hope  you 
will  continue  the  series  undismayed. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Stacey  Morris 


(157) 


POETRY  MADE  EASY 

IN  the  admirable  and  stimulating  lecture  given 
to  the  English  Association  by  Professor 
Spurgeon  on  "Poetry  in  the  Light  of  War/'  I 
came  again  upon  that  poem  of  Rupert  Brooke's 
in  which  he  enumerates  certain  material  things 
that  have  given  him  most  pleasure  in  life.  "I 
have  been  so  great  a  lover/'  he  writes,  and  then 
he  makes  a  list  of  his  loves,  thus  following, 
perhaps  all  unconsciously,  Lamb's  John  Woodvil 
in  that  rhymed  passage  which,  under  the  title 
"The  Universal  Lover,"  has  been  detached  from 
the  play.  But  Lamb,  pretending  to  be  Eliza- 
bethan, dealt  with  the  larger  splendours,  whereas 
Rupert  Brooke's  modernity  took  count  of  the 
smaller.  John  Woodvil's  list  of  his  loves  begins 
with  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset;  Rupert  Brooke 
sets  down  such  mundane  and  domestic  trifles  as 
white  plates  and  cups,  the  hard  crust  of  bread, 
and  the  roughness  of  blankets. 
(158) 


Rupert  Brooke 

This,  to  strangers  to  the  poem,  may  not  sound 
very  poetical,  but  they  must  read  it  before  they 
judge.  To  me  it  is  at  once  one  of  the  most  sat- 
isfying and  most  beautiful  leaves  in  the  Georgian 
anthology.     Here  is  a  passage: 

Holes  in  the  ground;  and  voices  that  do  sing; 
Voices  in  laughter  too;  and  body's  pain 
Soon  turned  to  peace;  and  the  deep-panting  train; 
Firm  sands;  the  little  dulling  edge  of  foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes  home; 
And  washen  stones,  gay  for  an  hour;  the  cold 
Graveness  of  iron;  moist  black  earthen  mould; 
Sleep;  and  high  places;  footprints  in  the  dew; 
And  oaks;  and  brown  horse-chestnuts,  glossy-new; 
And  new-peeled  sticks,  and  shining  pools  on  grass; 
■ — All  these  have  been  my  loves. 

My  reason  in  quoting  these  fine  and  tender 
lines  is  to  point  out  how  simple  a  thing  poetry 
can  be;  how  easily  we,  at  any  rate  for  a  few 
moments — even  the  most  material,  the  most 
world-brutalized  of  us, — can  become  poets  too. 
For  I  hold  that  any  man  searching  his  memory 
for  the  things  that  from  earliest  days  have  given 
him  most  delight,  and  sincerely  recording  them, 
not  necessarily  with  verbal  garniture  at  all,  is 
while  he  does  so  a  poet.  A  good  deal  of  Whit- 
man is  little  else  but  such  catalogues;  and  Whit- 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

man  was  a  great  poet.  The  effort  (even  without 
the  reward  of  this  not-always-desired  label)  is 
worth  making,  because  (and  this  is  where  the 
poetry  comes  in)  it  forces  one  to  visit  the  past 
and  dwell  again  in  the  ways  of  pleasantness  be- 
fore the  world  was  too  much  with  us  and  life's 
hand  had  begun  to  press  heavily:  most  of  such 
loves  as  Rupert  Brooke  recalls  having  their  roots 
in  our  childhood.  Hence  such  poetry  as  we  shall 
make  cannot  be  wholly  reading  without  tears. 

I  find  that  on  my  list  of  loves  scents  would 
take  a  very  important  place — the  scent  of  gorse 
warmed  by  the  sun  coming  almost  first,  gorse 
blossoms  rubbed  in  the  hand  and  then  crushed 
against  the  face,  geranium  leaves,  the  leaves  of 
the  lemon  verbena,  the  scent  of  pine  trees,  the 
scent  of  unlit  cigars,  the  scent  of  cigarette  smoke 
blown  my  way  from  a  distance,  the  scent  of  cof- 
fee as  it  arrives  from  the  grocer's  (see  what  a 
poet  I  am!),  the  scent  of  the  underside  of  those 
little  cushions  of  moss  which  come  away  so  easily 
in  the  woods,  the  scent  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  the 
scent  of  oatcake  for  cattle,  the  scent  of  lilac,  and, 
for  reasons,  above  all  perhaps  the  scent  of  a  rub- 
bish fire  in  the  garden. 
(160) 


Scents 

Rupert  Brooke  mentions  the  feel  of  things. 
Among  the  loves  of  the  sense  of  couch  I  should 
include  smooth  dried  beans,  purple  and  spotted, 
and  horse-chestnuts,  warm  and  polished  by  being 
kept  in  the  pocket,  and  ptarmigan's  feet,  and  tor- 
toiseshell  spoons  for  tea-caddies.  And  among 
sounds,  first  and  foremost  is  the  sound  of  a  car- 
riage and  pair,  but  very  high  in  position  is  that 
rare  ecstasy,  the  distant  drum  and  panpipes  of 
the  Punch  and  Judy.  Do  they  play  the  panpipes 
still,  I  wonder.  And  how  should  I  behave  if  I 
heard  them  round  the  corner?  Should  I  run? 
I  hope  so.  Scent,  sound,  touch,  and  sight. 
Sight?  Here  the  range  is  too  vast,  and  yet  here, 
perhaps,  the  act  of  memory  leads  to  the  best 
poetry  of  all.  For  to  enumerate  one's  favourite 
sights — always,  as  Rupert  Brooke  may  be  said 
to  have  done,  although  not  perhaps  consciously, 
in  the  mood  of  one  who  is  soon  to  lose  the  visible 
world  for  ever — is  to  become,  no  matter  how 
humble  the  list,  a  psalmist. 

The  mere  recollecting  and  recording  even  such 
haphazard  memories  as  these  has  had  the  eifect 
of  reconstructing  also  many  too-long-forgotten 
scenes  of  pure  happiness,  and  has  urged  me  about 

(161) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

this  dear  England  of  ours  too,  for  I  learned  to 
love  gorse  on  Harpenden  Common,  and  pine- 
woods  at  Ampthill,  and  moss  in  Kent,  and  the 
scent  of  coffee  in  the  kitchen  of  a  home  that  can 
never  be  rebuilt,  and — but  poetry  can  be  pain 
too. 


(162) 


A  PIONEER 

TO  be  the  first  is  always  an  achievement, 
even  though  the  steps  falter.  To  be  the 
first  is  also  a  distinction  that  cannot  be  taken 
away,  because  whoever  comes  after  must  be  a 
follower;  and  to  follow  is  tame.  It  occasionally 
happens  that  the  first,  no  matter  how  many  imi- 
tate him,  is  also  the  best;  but  this  cannot  be  said 
of  Baboo  Ramkinoo  Dutt,  retired  medical  ofii- 
cer  on  pension,  a  tiny  pamphlet  by  whom  has 
just  fluttered  my  way. 

Mr.  Dutt's  pioneer  work  was  done  in  the 
realms  of  poesy,  somewhen  in  the  eighteen-six- 
ties,  and  the  fruits  are  gathered  together  in  this 
brochure  under  the  title  Songs,  published  at 
Chittagong,  in  India,  which,  in  some  bewildering 
way,  reached  a  second  edition  in  1886.  In  the 
opening  "distich"  Mr.  Dutt  makes  the  claim  to 
be  the  first  Asiatic  poet  to  write  in  English,  and 

(163) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

if  that  is  true  this  insignificant  work  becomes  the 
seed  of  which  the  full  flower  is  the  gifted  Rabin- 
dra,  son  of  Tagore,  whose  mellifluous  but  mystic 
utterances  lie,  I  am  told,  on  every  boudoir  table. 
Me  they,  for  the  most  part,  stump. 

Baboo  Ramkinoo  Dutt,  although  a  pioneer, 
made  no  claim  himself  to  have  originated  the 
startling  idea  of  writing  songs  "in  English  word" 
and  English  rhyme;  he  merely  accepted  the  sug- 
gestion and  acted  upon  it.  The  suggestion  came, 
under  divine  guidance,  from  Mr.  J.  D.  Ward,  the 
Chittagong  magistrate.  Here  are  the  lines,  set- 
ting forth  that  epoch-making  moment,  in  an  ad- 
dress to  the  Deity: 

I  thank  Thee  fo    an  idea  that  TTiou  has  created  in  my 

heart 
On  which  through  the  faculty  I  met  now  a  very  fresh 

art. 

Being  myself  desired  by  the  Chittagong  magistrate,  Mr. 

J.  D.  Ward, 
Got  encouraged  and  commence  writing  a  few  songs  in 

English  word. 

To  Mr.  Ward,  then,  much  honour;  and,  indeed, 
one  of  Ramkinoo  Dutt's  pleasantest  qualities  is 
his  desire  always  to  give  honour  where  it  is  due. 
(164) 


Ramkinoo  Dutt 

Mr.  Ward  was  perhaps  his  especial  darling 
among  the  white  sahibs  of  Chittagong,  but  all 
are  praised.  Thus,  in  another  invocation  to 
Heaven,  we  read: 

King,  conqueror  of  nations,  encourage  two  sorts  of 

mortals. 
One  skilled  in  war,  the  other  in  counsel. 

If    so,    why    not    Captain    Macdonald    should    be    the 

former? 
If  so,  why  not  Mr.  J.  D.  Ward  would  be  the  latter? 

And  here  is  part  of  a  "distich  on  arrival  of  38th 
N.I.": 

We  paid  a  visit  upon  Captain  John  A.  Vanrenen, 
He  is  a  high-spirited  hero  and  jolly  gentleman, 

So  is  the  Lieutenant  George  Fergus  Graham, 
So  is  the  Lieutenant  Henry  Tottenham. 

The  last  poem  of  all  is  wholly  devoted  to  eulo- 
gies of  Chittagong  worthies.  For  example,  Mr. 
H.  Greavesour,  the  judge. 

Is  a  pious  and  righteous  man, 
Administering  justice  with  mental  pain. 

Of  Mr.  D.  R.  Douglas: 

There  is  Mr.  D.  R.  Douglas,  Joint  Magistrate, 
His  judgment  is  pure,  yes,  on  the  highest  rate. 

(165) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

And  Mr.  A.  Marshy  Magistrate-Collector: 

He  is  devout,  iioly  man,  naturally  shy, 
His  mind  seems  run  through  righteous  way. 

And  the  Executive  Engineer,  Mr.  C,  A.  Mills: 

The  energetic  gentleman  is  getting  on  well. 

All  these  were  living  and  probably  in  daily  re- 
ception of  the  obeisances  of  the  retired  medical 
officer  who  esteemed  them  so  highly;  but  Dr. 
Beatson  was  dead: 

We  lost,  lately  lost,  Dr.  W.  B.  Beatson. 

We  again  shall  never  gain  him  in  person.  .  .  . 

He  is  a  Dr.  Philanthropist, 

He  is  a  Dr.  Physiognomist, 

He  is  a  Dr.  Anatomist, 

He  is  His  Lordship's  personal  Surgeon. 

It  will  be  seen  already  that  Mr.  Dutt  had  not 
yet  mastered  his  instrument,  but  he  did  not  lack 
thoughts:  merely  the  power  to  express  them. 
Throughout  these  thirty  odd  pages  one  sees  him 
floundering  in  the  morass  of  a  new  language,  al- 
ways with  something  that  he  wants  to  say  but 
can  only  suggest.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  per- 
sonal statement,  line  by  line  more  or  less  inartic- 
ulate, but  as  a  whole  clear  enough.  With  all  the 
(166) 


A  Credo 

mental  incompleteness,  the  verbal  looseness,  the 
fumblings  and  gropings  of  the  traditional  Baboo, 
it  is  a  genuine  piece  of  irony.  Seldom  can  a  con- 
vert to  Christianity  have  been  more  frank. 

I  would  not  accept  a  second  creation, 

I  thank  the  Omnipotent  for  his  kind  protection. 

From  my  minority, 

I  profess  the  mendacity, 

Passed  days  in  poverty, 

From  my  minority. 

Perpetually  my  duty. 

Sobbing  under  perplexity. 

Nothing  least  prosperity, 

But  sad  and  emotion. 

I  gave  up  the  heathenism. 
And  its  favouritism, 
Together  with  the  Hinduism. 

I  gave  up  the  heathenism. 

Neither  the  fanaticism. 

Nor  the  paganism, 

Or  my  idiotism. 

Could  enrich  me  with  provision. 

Such  was  the  poetical  pioneer,  Baboo  Ram- 
kinoo  Dutt,  who  (supposing  always  that  we  may 
accept  his  statement  as  true)  was  the  first  Hindu 
to  write  English  verse. 

(167) 


FULL  CIRCLE 

I  HAVE  lately  been  the  witness  of  two  phe- 
nomena. 
Not  long  ago  two  officers  and  gentlemen 
(whom  I  had  never  seen  before  and  one  of  whom, 
alas !  I  shall  never  see  again)  descended  from  a 
blue  sky  on  to  a  neighbouring  stretch  of  sward; 
had  tea  with  me  in  my  garden;  and,  ascending 
into  the  blue  again,  were  lost  to  view.  Since  it  is 
seldom  that  the  heavens  drop  such  visitants  upon 
us  in  the  obscure  region  in  which  I  live,  it  fol- 
lows that  while  the  aviators  were  absent  from 
their  machine  the  news  had  so  spread  that  by 
the  time  they  rejoined  it  and  prepared  to  depart, 
a  crowd  had  assembled  not  unworthy  of  being 
compared,  in  point  of  numbers,  with  that  which 
two  workmen  in  London  can  bring  together  when- 
ever they  begin  to  make  a  hole  in  the  wood-block 
paving.  I  had  not  thought  so  many  people  lived 
(168) 


The  Aeroplane 

in  the  neighbourhood.  Every  family,  at  any 
rate,  was  represented,  while  the  rector  looked  on 
with  the  tolerant  smile  that  the  clergy  keep  for 
the  wonders  of  science,  and  just  at  the  last  mo- 
ment up  panted  our  policeman  on  his  bicycle,  and 
pulling  out  his  notebook  and  pencil  for  the  avia- 
tors' names  (Heaven  knows  why),  set  upon  the 
proceedings  the  seal  of  authority. 

Whatever  may  be  said  against  aeroplanes  in 
full  flight,  and  there  is  quite  a  long  indictment — 
that  they  are,  for  instance,  not  at  all  like  birds, 
and  much  more  like  dragon-flies,  and  are  too 
noisy,  and  too  rigid,  and  so  forth, — no  one  in  his 
senses  can  pretend  that  as  they  rise  from  the 
ground — especially  if  you  are  behind  them  and 
they  are  receding  swiftly  in  a  straight  line  from 
you,  and  even  more  so  if  you  are  personally  ac- 
quainted with  the  occupants — they  have  beautiful 
and  exciting  qualities.  Not  soon  shall  I  forget 
the  sight  as  my  guests  in  their  biplane  glided  ex- 
quisitely from  the  turf  into  the  air  and,  after  one 
circular  sweep  around  our  bewildered  heads, 
swam  away  in  the  direction  of  the  Hog's  Back. 

That  was  phenomenon  No.  1.  Phenomenon 
No.    2 — also    connected   with   the   mechanics    of 

(169) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

quicker  movement  than  Shanks's  mare  ever  com- 
passed— was  one  of  those  old  high  bicycles,  a 
fifty-two  inch,  I  should  guess,  dating  from  the 
late  eighteen-seventies,  which^  although  the  year 
was  1916,  was  being  ridden  along  the  Brighton 
front. 

I  am,  unhappily,  old  enough  to  have  been  the 
owner  of  a  bone-shaker,  upon  which  I  can  assure 
you  I  had  far  more  amusing  times  than  on  any 
of  its  luxurious  progeny,  even  though  they  were 
fitted  with  every  device  that  all  the  engineers' 
brains  in  the  world,  together  with  the  white  hat 
and  beard  of  Mr.  Dunlop,  have  succeeded  in  in- 
venting. Being  able  to  remember  the  advent 
of  the  high  bicycle  and  the  rush  to  the  windows 
and  gates  whenever  word  went  forth  that  one  was 
approaching  (much  as  a  few  of  the  simpler 
among  us  still  run  when  the  buzz  of  the  aeroplane 
is  heard),  I  was,  as  I  watched  the  interest 
aroused  among  Brighton's  butterflies  by  this  an- 
tique relic,  in  a  position  to  reflect,  not  I  trust 
sardonically,  but  at  any  rate  without  any  feel- 
ings of  triumph,  upon  the  symmetrical  comple- 
tion of — I  must  not  say  one  cycle  of  mechanical 
enterprise,  but  one  era.  For  this  high  bicycle 
(170) 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Obsolete 

(which  was  perhaps  built  between  thirty  and 
forty  years  ago)  wobbling  along  the  King's  Road 
drew  every  eye.  Before  that  moment  we  had 
been  looking  at  I  know  not  what — the  Skylark, 
maybe^  now  fitted  with  auxiliary  motor  power;  or 
the  too  many  soldiers  in  blue  clothes,  with  only 
one  arm  or  one  leg,  and  sometimes  with  no  legs 
at  all,  who  take  the  sun  near  the  Palace  Pier  and 
are  not  wholly  destitute  of  female  companion- 
ship. But  when  this  outlandish  vehicle  came  we 
all  stopped  to  gaze  and  wonder,  and  we  watched 
it  out  of  sight. 

"Look  at  that  extraordinary  bicycle !"  said  the 
young,  to  whom  it  was  something  of  the  latest. 

"Well,  I'm  blessed,"  said  the  old,  "if  there 
isn't  one  of  those  high  bicycles  from  before  the 
Flood!" 

And  not  only  did  it  provide  a  diverting  specta- 
cle, but  it  gave  us  something  to  talk  about  at  din- 
ner, where  we  compared  old  feats  perched  on 
these  strange  monsters,  in  the  days  when  the  road 
from  John  o'  Groats  to  Land's  End  was 
thick  with  competitors,  and  half  the  male  world 
wore  the  same  grey  cloth,  and  the  Vicar  of  Rip- 
ley strove  every  Sunday  for  the  cyclist's  soul. 

(171) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

Being  myself  didactically  disposed,  I  went 
farther  than  reminiscence  and  bored  my  com- 
panions with  some  such  reflections  as  those  that 
follow.  It  is  not  given  (I  said)  to  many  of  us  to 
have  a  second  time  on  earth,  but  this  bicycle  is 
having  it,  and  enjoying  it.  In  the  distant  eigh- 
teen-seventies  or  eighties  it  was,  as  a  daring  in- 
novation, a  marvel  and  a  show.  Then  came  (I 
went  on)  all  the  experiments  and  developments 
imder  which  cycling  has  become  as  natural  al- 
most as  walking,  during  which  it  lay  neglected 
in  corners,  like  the  specimen  in  the  London  Mu- 
seum in  the  basement  of  Stafford  House.  And 
then  an  adventurous  boy  discovered  it,  and  riding 
it  to-day  bravely  beside  that  promenade  of  sun- 
beetles,  assisted  it  (I  concluded)  to  box  the  com- 
pass and  transform  the  Obsolete  into  the  Nov- 
elty. 

Some  day,  if  I  live,  there  may  visit  me  from 
the  blue  as  I  totter  among  the  flower-beds  an 
aeroplane  of  so  scandalous  a  crudity  and  im- 
maturity that  all  the  countryside,  long  since 
weary  of  the  sight  and  sound  of  flying  machines, 
then  so  common  that  every  cottager  will  have  one, 
(172) 


Man  and  Inventions 

will  again  cluster  about  it  while  its  occupants  and 
I  drink  our  tea. 

For  with  mechanical  enterprise  there  is  no 
standing  still.  Man,  so  conspicuously  unable  to 
improve  himself ^  is  always  making  his  inventions 
better. 


(173) 


A  FRIEND  OF  MAN 


IN    TWO    PARTS 


I     The  Fallen  Star 


ONCE   upon  a  time  there  was   a  pug  dog 
who  could  speak. 

I  found  him  on  a  seat  in  Hyde  Park. 

"Good  afternoon/'  he  said. 

Why  I  was  not  astonished  to  be  thus  addressed 
by  a  pug  dog,  I  cannot  say;  but  it  seemed  per- 
fectly natural. 

"Good  afternoon/'  I  replied. 

"It's  a  long  time/'  he  said,  "since  you  Saw  any 
of  my  kind,  I  expect?" 

"Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  I  replied,  "it  is. 
How  is  that.''" 

"There's  a  reason,"  he  said.     "Put  in  a  nut- 
shell it's  this:  Peeks."     He  wheezed  horribly. 
(174) 


The  Passing  of  the  Pug 

I  asked  him  to  be  more  explioit^  and  he  ampli- 
fied his  epigram  into:  "Pekingese." 

"They're  all  the  rage  now/'  he  explained; 
"and  we're  out  in  the  cold.  If  you  throw  your 
memory  back  a  dozen  years  or  so,"  he  went  on, 
"you  will  recall  our  popularity." 

As  he  spoke  I  did  so.  In  the  mind's  eye  I  saw 
a  sumptuous  carriage-and-pair.  The  horses 
bristled  with  mettle.  The  carriage  was  on  C- 
springs,  and  a  coachman  and  footman  were  on 
the  box.  They  wore  claret  livery  and  cockades. 
The  footman's  arms  were  folded.  His  gloves 
were  of  a  dazzling  whiteness.  In  the  carriage 
was  an  elderly  commanding  lady  with  an  aristo- 
cratic nose;  and  in  her  lap  was  a  pug  dog  of 
plethoric  habit  and  a  face  as  black  as  your  hat. 

All  the  time  my  new  acquaintance  was  watch- 
ing me  with  streaming  eyes.  "What  do  you 
see?"  he  asked.  ; 

I  described  my  mental  picture. 

"There  you  are/'  he  said;  "and  what  do  you 
see  to-day?     There,  look!" 

I  glanced  up  at  his  bidding,  and  a  costly  motor 
was  gliding  smoothly  by.  It  weighed  several 
toDS;  and  its  tyres  were  like  dropsical  life-belts. 

(175) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

On  its  shining  door  was  a  crest.  The  chauffeur 
was  kept  warm  by  costly  furs.  Inside  was  an 
elderly  lady,  ard  in  her  arms  was  a  russet  Pe- 
kingese. 

"So  you  see  what  went  when  I  went/*  the  pug 
said,  after  a  noisy  pause.  "It  wasn't  only  pugs 
that  went;  it  was  carriages-and-pairs,  and  the 
sound  of  eight  hoofs  all  at  once,  and  footmen 
with  folded  arms.  We  passed  out  together. 
Exeunt  pugs.  Enter  Peeks  and  Petrol.  And 
now  we  are  out  in  the  cold." 

I  sympathized  with  him.  "You  must  transfer 
your  affection  to  another  class,  that's  all,"  I  said. 
"If  the  nobs  have  gone  back  on  you,  there  are 
still  a  great  many  pug-lovers  left." 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  no  good;  we  want 
chicken.  We  must  have  it.  Without  it,  we  had 
better  become  extinct."  He  wept  with  the  sound 
of  a  number  of  syphons  all  leaking  together,  and 
waddled  away. 

At  this  moment  the  man  who  has  charge  of  the 
chairs  came  up  for  my  money.  I  gave  the 
penny. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  charge  you  twopence,"  the 
man  said. 

(176) 


The  Beauties 

I  asked  him  why. 

"For  the  dog,"  he  said.  "When  they  talks  we 
has  to  make  a  charge  for  them." 

"But  it  wasn't  mine/'  I  assured  him.  "It  was 
a  total  stranger." 

"Come  now,"  he  said;  and  to  save  trouble  I 
paid  him. 

But  how  like  a  pug ! 

II     The  New  Book  of  Beauty 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  Books  of  Beauty  had 
line  engravings  by  Charles  Heath,  and  long- 
necked,  ringleted  ladies  looked  wistfully  or  sim- 
peringly  at  you.  I  have  several  examples :  Cas- 
kets, Albums,  Keepsakes.  The  new  Book  of 
Beauty  has  a  very  different  title.  It  is  called 
The  Pekingese,  and  is  the  revised  edition  for 
1914. 

The  book  is  different  in  other  ways  too.  The 
steel  engravers  having  long  since  all  died  of 
starvation,  here  are  photographs  only,  in  large 
numbers,  and  (strange  innovation !)  there  are 
more  of  gentlemen  than  of  ladies.  For  this  pre- 
ponderance there  is  a  good  commercial  reason, 
as  any  student  of  the  work  will  quickly  discover, 

(177) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

for  we  are  now  entering  a  sphere  of  life  where 
the  beauty  of  the  sterner  sex  (if  so  severe  a  word 
can  be  applied  to  such  sublimation  of  everything 
that  is  soft  and  voluptuous  and  endearing)  is 
more  considered  than  that  of  the  other.  Beauti- 
ful ladies  are  here  in  some  profusion,  but  the  first 
place  is  for  beautiful  and  guinea-earning  gentle- 
men. 

In  the  old  Books  of  Beauty  one  could  make  a 
choice.  There  was  always  one  lady  supremely 
longer-necked,  more  wistful  or  more  simpering 
than  the  others.  But  in  this  new  Book  of  Beauty 
one  turns  the  pages  only  to  be  more  perplexed. 
The  embarrassment  of  riches  is  too  embarrassing. 
I  have  been  through  the  work  a  score  of  times 
and  am  still  wondering  on  whom  my  affections 
and  admiration  are  most  firmly  fixed. 

How  to  play  the  part  of  Paris  where  all  the 
competitors  have  some  irresistibility,  as  all  have 
of  either  sex?  Once  I  thought  that  Wee  Mo  of 
Westwood  was  my  heart's  chiefest  delight,  "a 
flame-red  little  dog  with  black  mask  and  ear- 
fringes,  profuse  coat  and  featherings,  flat  wide 
skull,  short  flat  face,  short  bowed  legs  and  well- 
shaped  body."  But  then  I  turned  back  to 
(178) 


Superb  Fatherhood 

Broadoak  Beetle  and  on  to  Broadoak  Cirawanzi, 
and  Young  Beetle,  and  Nanking  Fo,  and  Ta  Fo 
of  Greystones,  and  Petslie  Ah  Wei,  and  Hay 
Ch'ali  of  Toddington,  and  that  superb  Sultanic 
creature,  King  Rudolph  of  Ruritania,  and  Cham- 
pion Howbury  Ming,  and  Su  Eh  of  Newnham, 
and  King  Beetle  of  IMinden,  and  Champion  Hu 
Hi,  and  Mo  Sho,  and  that  rich  red  dog,  Buddha 
of  Burford.  And  having  chosen  these  I  might 
just  as  well  scratch  out  their  names  and  write 
others,  for  every  male  face  in  this  book  is  a  poem. 

The  ladies,  as  I  have  said,  are  in  the  minority, 
for  the  obvious  reason  that  these  little  disdain- 
ful distinguished  gentlemen  figure  here  as  poten- 
tial fathers,  with  their  fees  somewhat  indelicately 
named:  since  there's  husbandry  on  earth  as  well 
as  in  heaven. 

Such  ladies  as  are  here  are  here  for  their 
beauty  alone  and  are  beyond  price.  Among 
them  I  note  with  especial  joy  Yiptse  of  China- 
town, Mandarin  ]\Iarvel,  who  "inherits  the  beau- 
tiful front  of  her  sire,  Broadoak  Beetle";  Lav- 
ender of  Burton-on-Dee,  "fawn,  with  black 
mask";  Chi-Fa  of  Alderbourne,  "a.  most  charm- 
ing  and    devoted   little   companion";   Yeng   Loo 

(179) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

of  Ipsley;  Detlong  Mo-li  of  Alderbourne,  one  of 
the  "beautiful  red  daughters  of  Wong-ti  of  Al- 
derbourne,"  Champion  Chaou  Chingur,  of  whom 
her  owner  says  that  "in  quaintness  and  individ- 
uality and  in  loving  disposition  she  is  une- 
qualled," and  is  also  "quite  a  'woman  of  the 
world/  very  hlasee  and  also  very  punctilious  in 
trifles";  Pearl  of  Cotehele,  "bright  red,  with 
beautiful  back";  E-Wo  Tu  T'su;  Berylune  Tzu 
Hsi  Chu;  Ko-ki  of  Radbourne  and  Siddington 
Fi-fi. 

Every  now  and  then  there  is  an  article  in  the 
papers  asking  and  answering  the  question,  What 
is  the  greatest  benefit  that  has  come  to  mankind 
in  the  past  half-century  ?  The  answer  is  usually 
the  camera,  or  matches,  or  the  Marconi  system, 
or  the  cinema,  or  the  pianola,  or  the  turbine,  or 
the  Rontgen  rays,  or  the  telephone,  or  the  bicy- 
cle, or  Lord  Northcliffe,  or  the  motor-car.  Al- 
ways something  utilitarian  or  scientific.  But  why 
should  we  not  say  at  once  that  it  was  the  intro- 
duction of  Pekingese  spaniels  into  England 
from  China?     Because  that  is  the  truth. 


(180) 


THE  LISTENER 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  with 
such  delicate  ears  that  he  could  hear  even 
letters  speak.  And,  of  course,  letters  lying  in 
pillar-boxes  have  all  kinds  of  things  to  say  to 
each  other. 

One  evening,  having  posted  his  o\vn  letter,  he 
leaned   against   the  pillar-box   and   listened. 

"Here's  another!"  said  a  voice.  "Who  are 
you,  pray?" 

"I'm  an  acceptance  with  thanks,"  said  the  new 
letter. 

"What  do  you  accept?"  another  voice  asked. 

"An  invitation  to  dinner,"  said  the  new  letter, 
with  a  touch  of  pride. 

"Pooh!"  said  the  other.     "Only  that." 

"It's  at  a  house  in  Kensington,"  said  the  new 
letter. 

"Well,  I'm  an  acceptance  of  an  invitation  to  a 

(181) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

dance  at  a  duchess's/'  was  the  reply,  and  the  new 
letter  said  no  more. 

Then  all  the  others  began. 

"I  bring  news  of  a  legacy,"  said  one. 

"I  try  to  borrow  money,"  said  another,  rather 
hopelessly. 

"I   demand  the   payment  of   a   debt,"   said  a 
sharp  metallic  voice. 

"I  decline  an  offer  of  marriage,"  said  a  fourth, 
with  a  wistful  note. 

"I've  got  a  cheque  inside,"  said  a  fifth,  with  a 
swagger. 

"I  convey  the  sack,"  said  a  sixth  in  triumph. 

"I  ask  to  be  taken  on  again,  at  a  lower  salary," 
said  another,  with  tears. 

"What    do    you    think    I    am?"    one    inquired. 
"You  shall  have  six  guesses." 

"Give  us  a  clue,"  said  a  voice. 

"Very  well.     I'm  in  a  foolscap  envelope." 

Then  the  guessing  began. 

One  said  a  writ. 

Another  said  an  income-tax  demand. 

But  no  one  could  guess  it. 

"I'm  a  poem  for  a  paper,"  said  the  foolscap 
letter  at  last. 
(182) 


The  Listener 

"Are  you  good?"  asked  a  voice. 

"Not  jTood  enough,  I'm  afraid/'  said  the  poem. 
"In  fact  I've  been  out  and  back  again  seven  times 
already." 

"A  war  poem,  I  suppose?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  rhyme  'trench'  and 
'French.*  " 

"Guess  what  I  am/'  said  a  sentimental  mur- 
mur. 

"Anyone  could  guess  that/'  was  the  gruff  re- 
ply.    "You're  a  love-letter." 

"Quite  right/'  said  the  sentimental  murmur. 
"But  how  clever  of  you !" 

"Well/'  said  another,  "you're  not  the  only  love- 
letter  here.     I'm  a  love-letter  too." 

"How  do  you  begin?"  asked  the  first. 

"I  begin  'My  Darling/  "  said  the  second  love- 
letter. 

"That's  nothing/'  said  the  first;  "I  begin  'My 
Ownest  Own.'  " 

"I  don't  think  much  of  either  of  those  begin- 
nings/' said  a  new  voice.  "I  begin,  'Most 
Beautiful.'  " 

"You're  from  a  man,  I  suppose?"  said  the 
second  love-letter. 

(183) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"Yes,  I  am/'  said  the  new  one.     "Aren't  you?" 

"No,  I'm  from  a  woman/'  said  the  second. 
"I'll  admit  your  beginning's  rather  good.  But 
how  do  you  end?" 

"I  end  with  'A  million  kisses/  "  said  the  new 
one. 

"Ah,  I've  got  you  there !"  said  the  second.  "I 
end  with  'For  ever  and  ever  yours.'  " 

"That's  not  bad,"  said  the  first,  "but  my  end- 
ing is  pretty  good  in  its  way.  I  end  like  this: 
'To-morrow  will  be  Heaven  once  more,  for  then 
we  meet  again.'  " 

"Oh,  do  stop  all  this  love  talk,"  said  the 
gruff  voice  again,  "and  be  sensible  like  me.  I'm 
a  letter  to  an  Editor  putting  everything  right  and 
showing  up  all  the  iniquities  and  ineptitudes  of 
the  Government.  I  shall  make  a  stir,  I  can  tell 
you.  I'm  It,  I  am.  I'm  signed  'Pro  Bono  Pub- 
lico.' " 

"That's  funny!"  said  another  letter.  "I'm 
signed  that  too,  but  I  stick  up  for  the  Govern- 
ment." 

But  at  this  moment  the  listener  was  conscious 
of  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  a  lantern  in  his  face. 

"Here,"  said  the  authoritative  tones  of  a  po- 
(184) 


The  Listener 

liceman,  "I  think  you've  been  leaning  against 
this  pillar-box  long  enough.  If  you  can't  walk 
I'll  help  you  home." 

Thus  does  metallic  prose  invade  the  delicate 
poetical  realm  of  supernature. 


(185) 


THE  DARK  SECRET 

IT  was  the  most  perfect  September  day  that 
anyone  could  remember.  The  sun  had  risen 
in  a  dewy  mist.  The  early  air  was  pungent  with 
yellowing  bracken. 

Then  the  mist  cleared,  the  dew  disappeared 
from  everywhere  but  the  shadows,  and  the  Red 
Admirals  again  settled  on  the  Michaelmas  daises. 

A  young  man  walked  up  and  down  the  paths 
of  the  garden  and  drank  in  its  sweetness;  then 
he  passed  on  to  the  orchard  and  picked  from  the 
wet  grass  a  reddening  apple,  which  he  ate. 
Something  pulled  at  his  flannel  trousers:  it  was 
a  spaniel  puppy,  and  with  it  he  played  till  break- 
fast-time. 

He  was  staying  with  some  friends  for  a  cricket 

match.     It  was  the  last  of  the  season  and  his 

only  game  that  year.     As   one  grows  older  and 

busier,  cricket  becomes  less  and  less  convenient, 

(186) 


A  Cricket  JNIatch 

and  on  the  two  occasions  that  he  had  arranged 
for  a  day  it  had  been  wet. 

He  had  never  been  a  great  hand  at  the  game. 
He  had  never  made  100  or  even  70,  never  taken 
any  really  good  wickets;  but  he  liked  every  min- 
ute of  a  match,  so  much  so  that  he  was  always 
the  first  to  volvmteer  to  field  when  there  was  a 
man  short,  or  run  for  some  one  who  was  lame,  or 
even  to  stand  as  umpire. 

To  be  in  the  field  was  the  thing.  Those  rainy 
interludes  in  the  pavilion  which  so  develop  the 
stoicism  of  the  Srst-class  cricketer  had  no  power 
to  make  a  philosopher  of  him.  All  their  effect 
on  him  was  detrimental:  they  turned  him  black. 
He  fretted  and  raged. 

But  to-day  there  was  not  a  cloud;  nothing  but 
the  golden  September  sun. 

It  was  one  of  the  jolly  matches.  There  was 
no  jarring  element:  no  bowler  who  was  several 
sizes  too  good;  no  bowler  who  resented  being 
taken  off;  no  habitual  country-house  cricketer 
whose  whole  conversation  was  the  jargon  of  the 
game;  no  batsman  too  superior  to  the  rest;  no 
acerbitous  captain  with  a  lost  temper  over  every 
mistake;  no  champagne  for  lunch.     Most  of  the 

(187) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

players  were  very  occasional  performers :  the  rest 
were  gardeners  and  a  few  schoolboys.  Nice 
boys — boys  who  might  have  come  from  Winches- 
ter. 

He  was  quickly  out,  but  he  did  not  mind,  for 
he  had  had  one  glorious  swipe  and  was  caught  in 
the  deep  field  off  another,  and  there  is  no  better 
way  of  getting  out  than  that. 

In  the  field  he  himself  stood  deep,  and  the 
only  catch  that  came  to  him  he  held;  while  in  the 
intervals  between  wickets  he  lay  on  the  sweet 
grass  while  the  sun  warmed  him  through  and 
through.     If  ever  it  was  good  to  be  alive  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  the  sun  no  longer  warmed  him, 
and  he  noticed  that  it  had  sunk  behind  a  tree  in 
whose  hundred-yard-long  shadow  he  was  stand- 
ing. For  a  second  he  shivered,  not  only  at  the 
loss  of  tangible  heat,  but  at  the  realization  that 
the  summer  was  nearly  gone  (for  it  was  still 
early  in  the  afternoon),  and  this  was  the  last 
cricket  match,  and  he  had  missed  all  the  others, 
and  he  was  growing  old,  and  winter  was  coming 
on,  and  next  year  he  might  have  no  chance;  but 
most  of  all  he  regretted  the  loss  of  the  incredible 
goodness  of  this  day,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
088) 


The  Dark  Secret 

life  the  thought  phrased  itself  in  his  mind:  "No 
sooner  do  we  grasp  the  present  than  it  becomes 
the  past."  The  haste  of  it  all  oppressed  him. 
Nothing  stands  still. 

"A  ripping  day,  wasn't  it?"  said  his  host  as 
they  walked  back. 

"Perfect,"  he  replied,  with  a  sigh.  "But  how 
soon  over!" 

They  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  to  look  at  the  sunset,  and  he  sighed  again  as 
his  thoughts  flew  to  that  print  of  the  "Melan- 
cholia" which  had  hung  on  the  stairs  in  his  early 
home. 

"Notice  the  sunset,"  some  visitor  had  once  said 
to  him.  "Some  day  you  wiU  know  why  Diirer 
put  that  in." 

And  now  he  knew. 

That  evening  he  heard  the  Winchester  boys 
making  plans  for  the  winter  sports  at  Pontresina 
in  the  Christmas  vac. 


Xm) 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  THE  PIRATE 

IN  an  old  bookshop  which  I  visits  never  with- 
out making  a  discovery  or  two — not  infre- 
quently, as  in  the  present  case,  assisted  in  my 
good  fortune  by  the  bookseller  himself — I  lately 
came  upon  an  edition  of  Long's  Marcus  Aurelius 
with  an  admirable  prefatory  note  that  is,  I  be- 
lieve, peculiar  to  this  issue — that  of  1869.  And 
since  the  eyes  of  the  present  generation  have 
never  been  turned  towards  America  so  often  and 
so  seriously  as  latterly,  when  our  Trans-Atlan- 
tic cousins  have  become  our  allies,  blood  once 
more  of  our  blood,  the  passage  may  be  reprinted 
with  peculiar  propriety.  Apart,  however,  from 
its  American  interest,  the  document  is  valuable 
for  its  dignity  and  independence,  and  it  had  the 
effect  of  sending  me  to  that  rock  of  refuge,  The 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  to  inquire 
further   as    to   its   author.     There    I    found   that 

(190) 


George  Long 

George  Long,  whose  translation  of  the  Imperial 
Stoic  is  a  classic,  was  born  in  1800;  educated  at 
Macclesfield  Grammar  School  and  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge;  in  1821  was  bracketed  Craven 
scholar  with  Macaulay  and  Professor  Maiden, 
but  gained  a  fellowship  over  both  of  them;  and 
in  1824  went  to  Charlotteville,  Virginia,  as  pro- 
fessor of  ancient  languages.  Returning  in  1828 
to  profess  Greek  at  University  College,  London, 
he  was  thenceforward,  throughout  his  long  life, 
concerned  with  the  teaching  and  popularizing  of 
the  classics,  finding  time,  however,  also  to  be 
called  to  the  Bar,  to  lecture  on  jurisprudence  and 
civil  law,  and  to  help  to  found  the  Royal  Geo- 
graphical Society.  His  Marcus  Aurelius  is  his 
best-known  work,  but  his  edition  of  Cicero's  Ora- 
tions, his  discourse  on  Roman  Law,  and  his  Epic- 
tetus  also  stand  alone.  After  many  years'  teach- 
ing at  Brighton  College,  Long  retired  to  Chi- 
chester, where  he  died  in  1879. 

Late  in  life  he  brought  out  anonymously  a 
book  of  essays,  entitled  An  Old  Man's  Thoughts 
about  Many  Things,  in  which  I  have  been  dip- 
ping. I  do  not  say  it  would  bear  reprinting  now, 
but  anyone  seeing  it  on  a  friend's  shelf  should 

(191) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

borrow  it,  or  in  a  bookshop  should  buy  it,  because 
such  kindly  good  sense,  such  simple  directness 
and  candour  and  love  of  the  humanities  are  rare. 
It  has  its  mischief,  too.  The  old  scholar's  opin- 
ion on  statue-making  in  general  and  on  London's 
statues  in  particular  are  expressed  with  a  dry 
frankness  that  is  refreshing.  I  make  no  effort  to 
resist  quoting  a  little: 

"It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  statues 
should  be  made.  They  were  made  more  than  two 
thousand  years  ago,  and  I  believe  the  business 
has  never  stopped,  for  when  people  could  not 
get  good  statues,  they  were  content  with  bad,  as 
we  are  now. 

"If  I  might  give  advice  to  the  men  now  living, 
who  look  forward  to  the  honour,  if  it  is  an  honour, 
of  being  set  up  in  bronze  in  the  highways,  or  in 
marble  in  Westminster  Abbey  or  St.  Paul's;  if 
I  might  advise,  I  would  say,  leave  a  legacy  in 
your  will  for  your  own  statue.  It  will  save  much 
trouble  and  people  will  think  better  of  you  when 
you  are  gone,  if  you  cost  them  nothing.  As  to 
their  laughing  at  you  for  looking  after  your  own 
statue,  be  not  afraid  of  that. 
(192) 


English  Statues 

'  "It  is  very  disagreeable  nowadays  to  see  a  man 
standing  for  ever  on  his  legs  in  public,  doing 
nothing  but  stand,  and  seeming  as  if  he  were 
never  going  to  do  anything  else, 

"If  a  man  shall  try  to  persuade  me  that  a 
statue  should  be  nothing  more  than  the  effigy  of 
a  man  standing  on  a  pedestal,  I  shall  never  be 
convinced.  I  would  rather  see  a  living  man 
standing  on  an  inverted  cask,  as  I  have  seen  a 
slave  when  he  was  sold,  not  that  the  sale  is  a  very 
pleasant  thing  to  see,  but  the  man  produced  a 
much  better  effect  than  many  of  our  statues,  for 
he  expressed  something  and  they  express  nothing. 

"As  we  cannot  or  at  least  ought  not  to  make 
our  statues  naked  or  blanket-dressed,  and  as  body 
and  legs  are  merely  given  to  a  statue  in  order  to 
support  the  head,  for  the  legs  and  body  might  be 
any  legs  and  any  body,  would  it  not  be  wise  to 
be  satisfied  with  the  head  only?  This  would  be 
a  great  saving,  and  though  the  sculptor  would 
get  less  for  a  head  than  for  a  head  with  body 
and  legs  to  it,  he  would  have  more  heads  to  make. 
This  is  a  hint,  which  I  throw  out  by  the  way,  for 
the    consideration    of    committees    who    sit    on 

(193) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

statues^  by  which  I  mean  men  who  sit  together 
to  talk  about  a  thing  of  which  most  of  them 
know  nothing. 

"When  the  negroes  of  Africa  have  been 
brought  to  the  same  state  of  civilization  as  the 
white  man,  they  will  make  statues  and  set  them 
up  in  public;  and  as  we  who  are  white  make 
black  statues,  they  who  are  black  will  of  course 
make  white  statues. 

"Can  anybody  say  what  sin  Dr.  Jenner  com- 
mitted for  which  he  does  perpetual  penance,  not 
in  white,  but  in  black,  his  face  black  and  his 
hands  too,  seated  in  the  most  public  part  of  Lon- 
don, fixed  to  his  chair,  with  no  hope  of  rising 
from  it? 

"This  seated  figure  might  be  anybody.  I  see 
nothing  by  which  I  recognize  Dr.  Jenner;  to  say 
nothing  of  a  cow,  there  is  not  even  a  calf  by  his 
side,  with  the  benevolent  physician's  hand  on  the 
animal. 

"I  cannot  approve  of  a  seated  black  statue  in 
the  open  air — a  black  man  sitting,  and  no  more. 
(194) 


English  Statues 

"I  sincerely  pity  our  seated  gentlemen  in  Lon- 
don,  poor  Cartwright,  who  looks  like  an  old  cob- 
bler on  his  stool,  and  Fox,  worse  treated  still, 
blanket-dressed,  fat  and  black.  No  wonder  some 
shortsighted  man  from  the  new  Confederate 
States  once  took  Fox  for  a  negro  woman,  the 
emblem  of  British  philanthropy  and  a  memorial 
of  the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade. 

"The  only  beasts  on  which  we  can  now  place 
our  heroes  are  horses.  I  may  be  wrong  in  my 
opinion,  but  I  see  no  beauty  in  a  horse  standing 
still  and  a  man's  legs  dangling  down  from  the 
beast's  back;  nor  do  I  think  that  the  matter  is 
mended  by  the  horse  and  rider  being  of  colossal 
size,  though  they  ought  to  be  larger  than  life. 
Perhaps  we  shall  not  have  any  more  of  these 
statues;  but  is  it  impossible  to  remove  those  that 
we  have? 

"As  we  are  a  fighting  people,  we  have  been 
great  makers  of  statues  of  fighting  men.  We  put 
them  even  in  churches.  This  reminds  that  when 
the  time  shall  come  for  finishing  and  adorning 
the  inside  of  St.  Paul's,  there  will  be  an  enor- 
mous quantity  of  old  stone  to  dispose  of,  which 

(195) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

is  now  in  the  shape  of  generals,  captains,  admi- 
rals, lions  and  other  animals. 

"It  is  singular,  or  it  is  not  singular,  I  can't 
say  which,  that  we  who  box,  wrestle,  run  and  in 
many  ways  work  our  bodies,  more  than  any  other 
nation,  have  not  employed  our  sculptors  to  im- 
mortalize our  athletic  heroes.  Some  of  them 
would  make  good  subjects  for  the  artist.  He 
might  strip  the  boxer  or  runner  naked,  if  he 
liked,  and  exhibit  his  art  in  the  representation  of 
strength  and  beauty  of  form.  I  have  some  mis- 
givings about  the  faces  of  boxers,  which  are  not 
remarkable  for  beauty,  but  the  artist  may  improve 
them  a  little  without  destroying  the  likeness;  and 
besides,  in  a  naked  figure  we  look  less  at  the  face 
than  at  the  body  and  limbs.  The  champion  of 
England  would  certainly  have  had  a  statue  by 
Lysippus  or  some  artist  as  good,  if  he  had  been 
lucky  enough  to  live  in  ancient  times.  .  .  .  We 
shall,  of  course,  want  a  place  to  put  these 
statues  in,  for  we  may  be  sure  they  will  not 
get  into  the  churches,  which  are  only  made  for 
statues  of  fighting  men  who  have  killed  some- 
body or  ordered  somebody  to  kill  somebody. 
(196) 


George  Long 

"I  could  go  on  much  longer^  but  I  don't  choose. 
I  write  to  amuse  myself,  and  also  to  instruct,  and 
when  I  am  tired,  I  stop.  I  see  no  reason  why  I 
should  exhaust  the  subject.  I  should  only  be 
giving  my  ideas  to  people  who  have  none,  who 
make  a  reputation  out  of  other  folks'  brains, 
who  pounce  on  anything  that  they  find  ready  to 
their  hand,  and  flood  us  with  books  made  only  to 
sell." 

It  is  already,  I  imagine,  abundantly  clear  that 
Long  would  not  have  much  liked  many  things  that 
we  do  to-day.  Writing  of  "Place  and  Power,"  he 
says :  "At  that  very  distant  time  when  all  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  shall  be  Andrew  Marvells 
and  will  live  on  two  hundred  a  year,  poor  men 
may  do  our  business  for  us;  but  for  the  present 
I  prefer  men  who  are  rich  enough  to  live  without 
the  profits  of  place.  I  wish  somebody  would 
move  for  a  return  of  all  the  visible  and  invisible 
means  of  support  which  every  member  of  the 
Commons  has.  I  want  to  know  how  much  every 
man  in  the  House  receives  of  public  money, 
whether  he  is  soldier,  sailor,  place-holder,  sine- 
curist,  or  anything  else;  and  also  how  much  he 

(197) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

has  by  the  year  of  his  own."  Elsewhere  he  says: 
"There  is  no  occasion  to  print  any  more  sermons. 
...  I  have  always  wondered  why  so  much  is 
written  on  the  doctrines  and  principles  of  Chris- 
tianity and  on  good  living,  when  we  have  it  done 
long  ago  in  a  few  books  which  we  all  refer  to 
as  our  authority."  And  this  is  good:  "I  wish 
Euclid  could  have  secured  a  perpetual  copyright. 
It  might  have  helped  the  finances  of  the  Greeks." 

But  I  am  not  proposing  to  dissect  Long's  es- 
says; it  is  the  fine  rebuke  to  an  American  pub- 
lisher that  I  want  to  bring  to  your  notice,  for 
there  Long's  habitual  serenity  takes  an  edge. 
His  protest  runs  thus: 

"I  have  been  informed  that  an  American  pub- 
lisher has  printed  the  first  edition  of  this  trans- 
lation of  M.  Antoninus.  I  do  not  grudge  him  his 
profit,  if  he  has  made  any.  There  may  be  many 
men  and  women  in  the  United  States  who  will 
be  glad  to  read  the  thoughts  of  the  Roman  Em- 
peror. If  the  American  politicians,  as  they  are 
called,  would  read  them  also,  I  should  be  much 
pleased,  but  I  do  not  think  the  emperor's  moral- 
ity would  suit  their  taste. 

"I  have  also  been  informed  that  the  American 
(198) 


General  Lee 

publisher  has  dedicated  this  translation  to  an 
American.  I  have  no  objection  to  the  book  being 
dedicated  to  an  American,  but  in  doing  this  with- 
out my  consent  the  publisher  has  transgressed 
the  bounds  of  decency.  I  have  never  dedicated 
a  book  to  any  man,  and  if  I  dedicated  this,  I 
should  choose  the  man  whose  name  seemed  to  me 
most  worthy  to  be  joined  to  that  of  the  Roman 
soldier  and  philosopher.  I  might  dedicate  the 
book  to  the  successful  general  who  is  now  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  with  the  hope 
that  his  integrity  and  justice  will  restore  peace 
and  happiness,  so  far  as  he  can,  to  those  unhappy 
States  which  have  suffered  so  much  from  war  and 
the  unrelenting  hostility  of  wicked  men. 
"But,  as  the  Roman  poet  said, 

Victrix  causa  Deis  placuit,  sed  victa  Catoni; 

and  if  I  dedicated  this  little  book  to  any  man,  I 
would  dedicate  it  to  him  who  led  the  Confederate 
armies  against  the  powerful  invader,  and  retired 
from  an  unequal  contest  defeated,  but  not  dis- 
honoured; to  the  noble  Virginian  soldier,  whose 
talents  and  virtues  place  him  by  the  side  of  the 

(199) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

best  and  wisest  man  who  sat  on  the  throne  of  the 
Imperial  Cassars. — George   Long. 

That  is  excellent  prose,  is  it  not?  The  gen- 
eral to  whom  Long  would  dedicate  the  edition 
was  Robert  Edward  Lee,  who  had  then  become 
head  of  the  Washington  College  and  survived 
only  until  1870.  The  President  at  the  time  that 
Long  wrote  was  General  Grant,  to  whom  Lee 
surrendered. 

One  or  two  anecdotes  of  Long  which  have  re- 
cently come  my  way  would  alone  convince  me, 
apart  from  the  evidence  of  his  record  and  his 
writings,  that  here  was  a  very  sterling  and  very 
independent  "character"  of  whom  much  more 
should  be  known.  Some  day  I  hope  to  know 
more.  Meanwhile  I  relate  one  of  the  stories. 
An  appeal  for  cast-ojQT  clothing  for  the  poor 
clergy  being  made,  some  one  took  the  line  that 
such  an  appeal  was  infra  dig.  Long  smoked, 
pondered,  and  thus  delivered  himself:  "But  is 
it  not  paramount  that  these  gentlemen  should 
have  trousers?" 


(200) 


A  SET  OF  THREE 

THE  other  day  I  saw  three  sights,  and,  al- 
though they  have  no  connexion  with  each 
other,  each  was  in  its  way  sufficiently  evocative 
of  thought  to  make  that  day  a  little  more  interest- 
ing than  most. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  tardy  spring  of 
1917,  or  rather  the  first  day  into  which  had  crept 
those  hints  that  the  power  of  the  long,  cruel  war- 
winter  must  some  day  be  broken.  The  sun  was 
almost  visible,  and  a  tenderness  now  and  then 
touched  the  air,  and  no  one  who  is  at  all  respon- 
sive to  weather  conditions  could  fail  to  be  a  little 
elated  and  believe  once  more  not  only  in  a  future 
of  sorts  but  also  in  a  lurking  benignancy  some- 
where. Stimulated  myself  in  this  way,  even  al- 
though I  was  approaching  a  rehearsal  of  a  revue, 
I  came  suddenly  in  the  King's  Road  upon  that 
disused  burial-ground  opposite  the  Six  Bells,  and 

(201) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

was  aware  that,  sitting  there  on  seats  facing  the 
road,  in  white  aprons  and  caps,  with  shawls  over 
their  shoulders,  were  five  of  the  saddest  old  ladies 
I  have  ever  seen — occupants,  I  presume,  of  a 
neighbouring  workhouse.  There  they  sat,  say- 
ing nothing,  and  watching  without  enthusiasm 
the  passers-by  and  the  'buses  and  the  taxis  and 
all  the  hurry  and  scurry  of  an  existence  from 
which  they  are  utterly  withdrawn  and  which  they 
will  soon  leave  for  ever.  Being  on  my  frivolous 
errand,  I  was  pulled  up  very  short  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  five  such  stallholders  as  these  whom  the 
bigger  revue  which  we  call  life  had  left  so  cold; 
and  not  only  cold,  but  so  tired  and  so  white,  as 
life  loves  to  do.  There  was  a  poignancy  in  their 
very  placidity,  in  the  folded  hands  and  the  in- 
communicableness  of  them,  that  was  very  search- 
ing. There  was  criticism  too.  Hardly  more 
sentient  than  the  mummies  which  were  displayed 
to  the  guests  at  Egyptian  feasts,  they  were 
equally  admonitory.  .  .  . 

I  was  glad  again  to  be  in  the  theatre  listening 
to  the  familiar  tones  of  the  producer  wondering 
why  in  thunder  no  one  but  himself  had  the  faint- 
est respect  for  punctuality. 
(202) 


The  Blind 

Later  in  the  day  I  saw  a  blinded  officer,  with 
both  eyes  bandaged,  being  led  along  Sloane 
Street.  Blinded  men  are,  alas!  not  rare,  and  it 
was  not  the  officer  himself  that  attracted  my  no- 
tice, but  two  fine,  upstanding  young  soldiers  who 
as  they  passed  him  saluted  with  as  much  punc- 
tilio as  though  he  could  see  them.  Of  this  sa- 
lute he  was,  of  course,  wholly  unconscious,  but 
the  precision  with  which  it  was  given,  and,  in- 
deed, the  fact  that  it  was  given  at  all,  could  not 
but  make  an  impression  on  the  observer.  It 
seemed  to  comprise  so  thoroughly  both  the  spirit 
and  the  letter  of  discipline. 

And  late  that  night  I  watched  in  the  Tube, 
after  the  theatres,  a  man  and  a  small  eager-faced 
boy  talking  about  something  they  had  been  to 
see.  Although  sitting  exactly  opposite  them,  I 
have  no  idea  what  they  said,  but  they  amused 
each  other  immensely  as  they  recalled  this  joke 
and  that.  Nothing  extraordinary  in  this,  you 
will  say.  But  there  was.  The  reason  why  I 
was  so  profoundly  interested  to  be  a  witness  of 
the  scene  was  that  they  were  deaf  and  dumb,  and 
the  whole  conversation  was  carried  on  by  signs; 
not  by  the  alphabet  that  one  learnt  at  school  in 

(203) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

order  to  communicate  during  class,  but  a  rapid 
synthetic  improvement  upon  it,  where  two  or 
three  lightning-quick  movements — gesture  gram- 
malogues — sufficed  to  convey  whole  sentences  of 
meaning.  It  is  perhaps  curious,  but  I  had  never 
before  been  brought  into  such  close  contact  with 
the  deaf  and  dumb;  I  have  never  even  been — as, 
since  I  profess  to  explore  and  study  London,  I 
should  have  been — to  that  church  in  Oxford 
Street,  opposite  the  great  secret  emporium,  where 
the  deaf  and  dumb  worship  and  by  signs  are  ex- 
horted to  be  good.  Beyond  watching  that  boys' 
school  which  one  sees  gesticulating  on  the  Brigh- 
ton front,  I  had  never  until  this  night  sqen  these 
afflicted  creatures  in  intimate  and  sparkling  talk. 
I  found  the  sight  not  only  interesting,  but  as 
cheering  as  those  poor  old  things  in  the  King's 
Road  oasis  had  been  saddening.  Because  the  un- 
fortunates were  making  such  a  splendid  fight  for 
it.  No  boy  with  every  faculty  about  him  could 
have  been  gayer  or  merrier  than  this  mute  with 
the  dancing  eyes;  nor  can  I  conceive  of  a  spoken 
conversation  that  contained  a  completer  inter- 
change of  ideas  in  the  same  space  of  time. 
At  Oxford  Circus  they  got  out,  and  left  me 
(204) 


The  Dumb 

pondering  on  deafness  and  dumbness.  To  be 
dumb,  of  course,  is,  comparatively  speaking, 
nothing;  for  most  of  the  perplexities  of  life  come 
from  talk.  But  to  be  deaf — to  live  ever  in  si- 
lence, to  see  laughing  lips  moving,  to  see  hands 
wandering  over  the  keys,  to  see  birds  exulting, 
and  be  denied  the  resultant  harmonies:  that  must 
be  terrible.  Yet  terrible  only  to  those  who  have 
known  what  the  solace  and  gaiety  of  words  and 
the  beauty  of  sound  can  be.  To  have  been  born 
deaf  is  diflferent,  and  I  have  no  doubt  whatever 
that  the  deaf  and  dumb  have  delectable  lands  of 
their  own  into  which  we  can  never  stray,  where 
wonderful  flowers  of  silence  grow.  It  is  even 
possible,  since  all  the  visible  world  is  theirs,  that 
they  never  envy  us  at  all. 


'(205) 


A  LESSON 

GOD — it  is  notorious — works  in  a  mysteri- 
ous way  to  get  morality  and  decency  into 
us;  which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  not  all 
light  is  communicated  by  the  Episcopal  bench, 
by  clerks  in  holy  orders,  by  divines  who  do  not 
conform,  or  by  editors  at  Whitefield's  Tabernacle. 

The  other  day,  for  example,  I  had  lunch  with 
a  vary  charming  actress  in  a  pleasant  restaurant. 

"Rather  a  funny  thing  happened  the  last  time 
I  was  here,"  she  remarked. 

"Yes.''"  I  replied  languidly. 

"About  you." 

"Oh!"  I  said  with  animation.     "Do  tell  me." 

"It  was  also  at  lunch,"  she  explained.  "The 
people  at  the  next  table  were  talking  about  you. 
I  couldn't  help  hearing  a  little.  A  man  there 
said  he  had  met  you  in  Shanghai." 

"Not  really !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes.     He  met  you  in  Shanghai." 
(206) 


A  Lesson 

"That's  frightfully  interesting/'  I  said. 
"What  did  he  say  about  me?" 

"That's  what  I  couldn't  hear/'  she  replied. 
"You  see,  I  had  to  pay  some  attention  to  my  own 
crowd.     I  only  caught  the  word  'delightful.'  " 

Ever  since  she  told  me  this  I  have  been  turn- 
ing it  over  in  my  mind;  and  it  is  particularly 
vexing  not  to  know  more.  "Delightful"  can  be 
such  jargon  and  mean  nothing — or,  at  any  rate, 
nothing  more  than  amiability.  Still,  that  is  some- 
thing, for  one  is  not  always  amiable,  even  when 
meeting  strangers.  On  the  other  hand,  it  might 
be,  from  this  man,  the  highest  praise. 

The  whole  thing  naturally  leads  to  thought, 
because  I  have  never  been  farther  east  than 
Athens  in  my  life. 

What  did  the  man  mean.^  Can  we  possibly 
visit  other  cities  in  our  sleep.''  Has  each  of  us 
an  alter  ego,  who  can  really  behave,  elsewhere? 

Whether  we  have  or  not,  I  know  that  this  in- 
formation about  my  Shanghai  double  is  going  to 
be  a  great  nuisance  to  me.  It  is  going  to  change 
my  character.  In  fact,  it  has  already  begun  to 
change  it.     Let  me  give  you  an  example. 

Only  yesterday  I  was  about  to  be  very  angry 

(207) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

with  a  telegraph  boy  who  brought  back  a  tele- 
gram I  had  dispatched  about  two  hours  earlier, 
saying  that  it  could  not  be  delivered  because  it 
was  insufficiently  addressed.  Obviously  it  was 
not  the  boy's  fault,  for  he  belonged  to  our  coun- 
try post  office,  and  the  telegram  had  been  sent 
to  London  and  was  returned  from  there;  and  yet 
I  started  to  abuse  that  boy  as  though  he  were  not 
only  the  Postmaster-General  liimself  but  the  in- 
ventor of  red-tape  into  the  bargain.  And  all  for 
a  piece  of  carelessness  of  my  own. 

And  then  suddenly  I  remembered  Shanghai 
and  how  delightful  I  was  there.  And  I  shut  up 
instantly,  and  apologized,  and  rewrote  the  mes- 
sage, and  gave  the  boy  a  shilling  for  himself. 
If  one  could  be  delightful  in  Shanghai  one  must 
be  delightful  at  home  too. 

And  so  it  is  going  to  be.  There  is  very  little 
fun  for  me  in  the  future,  and  all  because  of  that 
nice-mannered  double  in  Shanghai  whom  I  must 
not  disgrace.  For  it  would  be  horrible  if  one 
day  a  lady  told  him  that  she  had  overheard  some 
one  who  had  met  him  in  London  and  found  him 
to  be  a  bear. 

(208) 


ON  BELLONA'S  HEM 

(second  series) 


209 


ON  BELLONA'S  HEM 
A  REVEL  IN  GAMBOGIA 

THERE  are  certain  ebullitions  of  frivolity 
about  which,  during  the  war,  one  has  felt 
far  from  comfortable.  To  read  reports  of  them, 
side  by  side  with  the  various  "grave  warnings" 
which  every  one  has  been  uttering,  is  to  be  al- 
most too  vividly  reminded  of  England's  capacity 
for  divided  action.  But  there  are  also  others; 
and  chief  among  these  I  should  set  the  fancy- 
dress  carnival  of  munition-workers  at  which  I 
was  privileged  to  be  present  one  Saturday  night. 
Here  was  necessary  frivolity,  if  you  like,  for 
these  myriad  girls  worked  like  slaves  all  the 
week,  day  and  night,  and  many  of  them  on  Sun- 
days too — and  "National  filling,"  as  their  par- 
ticular task  is  called,  is  no  joke  either — and  it 
was  splendid  to  see  them  flinging  themselves  into 
the  fun  of  this  rare  careless  evening. 
211 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

Fancy  dress  being  the  rule,  it  was  only  right 
and  proper  that  there  should  be  prizes  for  the 
best  costumes ;  and  since  the  lady  who  shed  her 
beneficence  over  this  prismatic  throng  does  noth- 
ing by  halves,  she  had  called  in  the  assistance  of 
two  artists  to  adjudicate.  I  will  not  make  pub- 
lic their  names;  that  would  be  to  overstep  the 
boundaries  of  decorum  and  turn  this  book  into 
sheer  journalism.  But  I  will  say  that  one  of 
them  is  equally  renowned  in  Chelsea  for  his  dis- 
tinguished brushwork  and  his  wit;  and  that  the 
other's  extravaganzas  cheer  a  million  breakfast- 
tables  daily.  How  I,  who  am  not  an  artist,  and 
so  little  of  a  costumier  that  I  did  not  eren  wear 
evening  dress,  got  into  this  gaUre  is  the  mystery. 
I  can  explain  it  only  by  a  habit  of  good  fortune, 
for  I  chanced  to  be  in  the  studio  of  the  Chelsea 
artist  at  the  moment  when  the  beneficent  lady 
arrived  to  put  her  request  to  him,  and,  noticing 
my  pathetic  look,  she  in  her  great  kindness  in- 
cluded me  in  the  invitation. 

Deciding  on  the  best  costume  when  there  are 

many  hundreds  of  them,  and  they  pass  before 

the  dazzled  eye  in  a  swift  procession  of  couples, 

is  not  easy;  and  only  very  remarkable  men  could 

(212) 


Fancy  Dress 

perform  the  task.  Women  might  find  it  easier, 
because  they  would  not  be  inflaenced,  as  one  of 
our  judges  obviously  was,  by  the  external  claims 
of  personal  beauty.  A  woman  would  look  at  the 
costume  and  nothing  else,  make  her  notes  with 
scientific  precision,  and  prepare  for  the  next. 
But  when  the  competitors  are  all — or  almost  all 
— girls,  and  most  of  them  pretty  and  all  jolly, 
why,  how  can  you  expect  impartiality,  especially 
in  artists,  and  at  any  rate  without  a  struggle? 
But  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  set  up  by  the  im- 
pact of  so  much  charm  upon  the  emotional  sus- 
ceptibilities of  at  any  rate  one  judge,  the  proc- 
ess of  selecting  a  first,  second,  and  third  was 
accomplished  with,  I  should  say — speaking  as  a 
calm,  detached  spectator,  with  all  my  feelings 
well  under  control — absolute  equity. 

The  first  prize  went  to  a  slender  lady  of  whose 
features  I  can  say  nothing  because  I  never  saw 
them,  her  Eastern  costume  including  a  veil  that 
covered  her  face.  But  it  seemed  to  these  not  too 
discerning  eyes  that  she  was  otherwise  of  an 
attractive  shapeliness.  As  to  her,  the  judges 
were  unanimous;  but  when  it  came  to  the  second 
they   were   divided.     The   Chelsea   judge,   again 

(213) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

swayed  by  passion,  and  possibly  recalling  old  tri- 
umphs in  his  Latin  Quarter  days,  preferred  a 
French  costume;  the  other  was  firm  for  an  In- 
dian. What  would  have  happened  I  dare  not 
think,  for  each  was  a  powerful  and  determined 
man,  ready  to  stick  at  nothing,  had  I  not,  in  my 
cool-headedness,  been  inspired  to  suggest  tossing 
up  for  it,  and  the  result  was  that,  the  coin  show- 
ing heads,  the  Indian  won,  and  the  French  cos- 
tume naturally  took  the  third  prize.  There 
were  then  two  prizes  to  be  awarded  for  the  most 
original  costumes,  the  previous  ones  having  been 
for  the  prettiest  costumes,  and  here  the  winner 
was  a  jovial  lady  who  with  her  own  hands  had 
transformed  herself  into  an  advertisement  for  a 
certain  soup  powder. 

The  iron  laws  of  etiquette  (or  is  it  finance?) 
which  so  cramp  the  style  of  any  writer  who  refers 
to  advertisements  forbid  me  to  state  what  par- 
ticular soup  powder  this  was;  but  according  to 
the  hoardings,  the  way  in  which  a  pennyworth 
will  nourish  and  rejoice  the  human  frame  is,  as 
the  Americans  say,  something  fierce.  If  the  ap- 
plause of  the  company  was  a  guide,  this  prize- 
winner is  a  very  popular  figure  among  our  "Na- 
(214) 


Gambogia 

tional  fillers."  The  second  prize  went  to  a  very 
ingenious  costume  called  "Tommy's  Parcel/'  con- 
sisting of  most  things  that  a  soldier  likes  to  re- 
ceive, and  so  thorough  in  design  as  to  comprise, 
tied  to  the  lady's  shoes,  Uvo  packets  of  a  harmful 
necessary  powder  without  a  copious  sprinkling  of 
which  no  trench  is  really  like  home.  If  the  ap- 
proving glances  at  "Tommy's  Parcel"  from  a 
young  officer  who  was  at  my  side  are  any  indica- 
tion, there  are  few  of  our  warriors  who  would 
not  welcome  it  with  open  arms. 

And  then — the  prizes  being  all  awarded — all 
these  nice  girls,  on  whose  activities  England  has 
been  so  largely  depending  for  safety,  set  again 
to  partners. 

But  why,  you  ask,  Gambogia?  I  thought  you 
would  want  to  know  that.  It  is  because  in  the 
making  of  munitions  at  the  factory  from  which 
these  girls  all  come  there  are  certain  chemicals 
which  have  the  effect  of  turning  the  skin  yellow. 
And  among  these  merry  revellers  were  some  thus 
• — but,  I  hope  and  believe,  only  temporarily — dis- 
figured. The  cheerfulness  with  which  they  are 
prepared  to  run  these  risks,  not  to  mention  others 
more  perilous  but  less  menacing  to  personal  van- 

(215) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

ity,  is  not  the  least  of  the  finenesses  of  character 
which  the  war  has  brought  out;  and  the  thought 
of  that  and  of  their  hard  work  and  their  gay- 
courage  made  the  spectacle  of  the  happy  high 
spirits  of  this  evening  of  playtime  even  more 
a  satisfaction. 


(216) 


THE  MISFIRE 

WHEN  I  entered  the  third  smoker  there 
was,  as  there  now  always  is,  a  soldier 
in  one  corner. 

Just  as  we  were  starting,  another  soldier  got 
in  and  sat  in  the  opposite  corner;  and  within  two 
minutes  they  knew  all  about  each  other's  camp, 
destination  and  regiment,  and  had  exchanged  cig- 
arettes. 

The  first  soldier  had  not  yet  left  England  and 
was  stolid;  the  new-comer  had  been  in  the 
trenches,  had  been  wounded  in  the  leg,  had  re- 
covered, was  shortly  going  back,  and  was  ani- 
mated. His  leg  was  all  right,  except  that  in 
wet  weather  it  ached.  In  fact  he  could  even  tell 
by  it  when  we  were  going  to  have  rain.  His 
"blooming  barometer"  he  called  it.  Here  he 
laughed — a  hearty  laugh,  for  he  was  a  genial 
blade  and  liked  to  hear  himself  talk. 

(217) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

The  first  soldier  did  not  laugh,  but  was  in- 
terested. He  thought  it  a  convenient  thing  to 
have  a  leg  that  foretold  the  weather. 

"Which  one  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"The  left." 

The  first  soldier  was  disproportionately  im- 
pressed. 

"The  left,  is  it?"  he  said  heavily,  as  though 
he  would  have  understood  the  phenomenon  in  the 
right  easily  enough.     "The  left." 

Completely  unconscious  of  the  danger-signals, 
the  second  soldier  now  began  to  review  his  rep- 
ertory of  stories,  and  he  started  off  with  that  ex- 
cellent one,  very  popular  in  the  early  days  of  the 
war,  about  the  wealthy  private. 

For  the  sake  of  verisimilitude  he  laid  the  scene 
in  his  own  barracks.  "A  funny  thing  happened 
at  our  place  the  other  day,"  he  began.  He  had 
evidently  had  great  success  with  this  story.  His 
expression    indicated   approaching   triumph. 

But  no  anticipatory  gleam  lit  the  face  of  his 
new  friend.  It  was  in  fact  one  of  those  faces 
into  which  words  sing  as  into  sand — a  white, 
puffy,  long  face,  with  a  moustache  of  obsolete 
bushiness. 

(218) 


The  Misfire 

"I  thought  I  should  have  died  of  laughing/' 
the  narrator  resumed,  utterly  unsuspicious, 
wholly  undeterred. 

In  the  far  corner  I  kept  my  eye  on  my  book 
but  my  ears  open.  I  could  see  that  he  was  rush- 
ing to  his  doom. 

"We  were  being  paid/'  he  went  on,  "and  the 
quartermaster  asked  one  of  the  men  if  he  did  not 
wish  sixpence  to  be  deducted  to  go  to  his  wife. 
The  man  said,  'No.'  'WTiy  not?'  the  quarter- 
master asked.  The  man  said  he  didn't  think  his 
wife  would  need  it  or  miss  it.  'You'd  better  be 
generous  about  it,'  the  quartermaster  said;  'ev- 
ery little  helps,  you  know.'  " 

He  paused.  "What  do  you  think  the  man  said 
to  that.''"  he  asked  his  new  friend.  "He  said," 
he  hurried  on,  "  'I  don't  think  I'll  send  it.  You 
see,  I  allow  her  four  thousand  a  year  as  it  is.'  " 

The  reconteur  laughed  loudly  and  leaned  back 
with  the  satisfaction — or  at  least  some  of  it — 
of  one  who  has  told  a  funny  story  and  told  it 
well. 

But  the  other  did  not  laugh  at  all.  His  face 
remained  the  dull  thing  it  was. 

"You  see,"  said  the  story-teller,  explaining  the 

(219) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

point,  "there  are  all  sorts  in  the  Army  now,  and 
this  man  was  a  toff.  He  was  so  rich  that  he 
could  afford  to  allow  his  wife  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  Four  thousand  pounds !  Do  you 
see .''" 

"Oh  yes,  I  see  that.  He  must  have  been  very 
rich.     Why  was  he  just  a  private.'"' 

"I  don't  know." 

"Funny  being  a  private  with  all  that  money. 
I  wonder  you  didn't  ask  him." 

"I  didn't,  anyway.  But  you  see  the  point  now. 
No  end  of  a  joke  for  the  quartermaster  to  try 
and  get  a  man  who  allowed  his  wife  four  thou- 
sand a  year  to  deduct  sixpence  a  week  to  send 
to  her!  I  thought  I  should  have  died  of  laugh- 
ing." 

The  first  soldier  remained  impassive.  "And 
what  happened.^"  he  asked  at  last. 

"What  happened?" 

"Yes,  what  was  done  about  it?  The  sixpence, 
I  mean.     Did  he  agree  to  send  it?" 

The  second  soldier  pulled  himself  together. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  shortly.  "That's 
not  the  point." 

"After  all,"  the  other  continued,  "the  regula- 
(220) 


The  Misfire 

tions  say  that  married  men  have  to  deduct  six- 
pence for  their  wives,  don't  they?" 

"Yes,  of  course/'  the  other  replied.  "But  this 
man,  I  tell  you,  already  gave  her  four  thousand 
a  year." 

"That  doesn't  really  touch  it,"  said  the  first 
soldier.     "The  principle's  the  same.     Now " 

But  I  could  stand  the  humiliation  of  the  other 
honest  fellow,  so  brimming  with  anecdote  and 
cheerfulness,  no  longer;  and  I  came  to  his  rescue 
with  my  cigarette  case.  For  I  have  had  misfires 
myself. 


'(221) 


A  LETTER 

(From    Captain    Claude   Seaforth   to   a   novelist 
friend) 

MY  DEAR  Man, — You  asked  me  to  tell  you 
if  anything  very  remarkable  came  my 
way.  I  think  I  have  a  story  for  you  at  last.  If 
I  could  only  write  I  would  make  something  of  it 
myself,  but  not  being  of  Kitchener's  Army  I 
can't. 

The  other  day,  while  I  was  clearing  up  papers 
and  accounts,  and  all  over  ink,  as  I  always  get, 
the  Sergeant  came  to  me,  looking  very  rum. 
"Two  young  fellows  want  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

Of  course  I  said  I  was  too  busy  and  that  he 
must  deal  with  them, 

"I  think  you'd  rather  see  them  yourself,"  he 
said,  with  another  odd  look. 

"What  do  they  want?"  I  asked. 

"They  want  to  enlist,"  he  said ;  "but  they  don't 
want  to  see  the  doctor." 
(222) 


A  Letter 

We've  had  some  of  these  before — consump- 
tives of  the  bull-dog  breed,  you  know.  Full  of 
pluck  but  no  mortal  use;  knocked  out  by  the  first 
route  march. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  them  that  they  must  see 
the  doctor  and  have  done  with  it?"  I  asked  the 
Sergeant. 

Again  he  smiled  queerly.  "I  made  sure  you'd 
rather  do  it  yourself/'  he  said.  "Shall  I  send 
them  in?" 

So  I  wished  them  farther  and  said  "Yes"; 
and  in  they  came. 

They  were  the  prettiest  boys  you  ever  saw  in 
your  life — too  pretty.  One  had  red  hair  and 
the  other  black,  and  they  were  dressed  like  nav- 
vies.    They  held  their  caps  in  their  hands. 

"WTiat's  this  rubbish  about  not  seeing  a  doc- 
tor?" I  asked.     You  know  my  brutal  way. 

"We  thought  perhaps  it  could  be  dispensed 
with/'  Red  Hair  said,  drawing  nearer  to  Black 
Hair. 

"Of  course  it  can't/'  I  told  them.  "'VNTiat  use 
to  the  Army  are  weaklings  who  can't  stand  the 
strain?  They're  just  clogs  in  the  machinery. 
Don't  you  see  that?" 

(223) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

"We're  very  strong,"  Red  Hair  said, 
"only " 

"Only  what?" 

"Only "     Here  they  looked  at  each  other, 

and  Red  Hair  said^  "Shall  we?"  and  Black  Hair 
said,  "Yes";  and  they  both  came  closer  to  me. 

"Will  you  promise,"  said  Red  Hair,  "that  you 
will  treat  as  confidential  anything  we  say  to 
you?" 

"So  long  as  it  is  nothing  dangerous  to  the 
State,"  I  said,  rather  proud  of  myself  for  think- 
ing of  it. 

"We  want  to  fight  for  our  country,"  Red  Hair 
began. 

"No  one  wants  to  fight  more,"  Black  Hair  put 
in. 

"And  we're  very  strong,"  Red  Hair  continued. 

"I  won  a  cup  for  lawn-tennis  at  Devonshire 
Park,"  Black  Hair  added. 

"But "  said  Red  Hair. 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"Don't  you  believe  in  some  women  being  as 
strong  as  men?" 

"Certainly,"  I  said. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Red  Hair,  "that's  like  us. 
(224) 


A  Letter 

We  are  as  strong  as  lots  of  men  and  much  keener, 
and  we  want  you  to  be  kind  to  us  and  let  us 
enlist." 

"We'll  never  do  anything  to  give  ourselves 
away/'  said  Black  Hair;  but,  bless  her  innocent 
heart,  she  was  giving  herself  away  all  the  time. 
Every  moment  was  feminine. 

The  rum  thing  is  that,  although  I  had  been 
conscious  of  something  odd,  I  never  thought  they 
were  girls.  Directly  I  knew  it,  I  knew  that  I 
had  been  the  most  unobservant  ass  alive;  for 
they  couldn't  possibly  be  anything  else. 

"My  dear  young  ladies,"  I  said  at  last,  "I 
think  you  are  splendid  and  an  example  to  the 
world;  but  what  you  ask  is  impossible.  Have 
you  thought  for  a  moment  what  it  would  be  like 
to  find  yourselves  in  barracks  with  the  ordinary 
British  soldier?  He  is  a  brave  man  and,  when 
you  meet  him  alone,  he  is  nearly  always  a  nice 
man;  but  collectively  he  might  not  do  as  com- 
pany for  you." 

"But  look  at  this,"  said  Red  Hair,  showing  me 
a  newspaper-cutting  about  a  group  of  Russian 
girls  known  as  "The  Twelve  Friends,"  who  have 

(225) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

been  through  the  campaign  and  were  treated  with 
the  utmost  respect  by  the  soldiers. 

"And  there's  a  woman  buried  at  Brighton," 
said  Black  Hair,  "who  fought  as  a  man  for  years 
and  lived  to  be  a  hundred." 

"And  think  of  Joan  of  Arc/'  said  Red  Hair. 

"And  Boadicea/'  said  Black  Hair. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "leaving  Joan  of  Arc  and 
Boadicea  aside,  possibly  those  Russians  and  that 
Brighton  woman  looked  like  men,  which  it  is 
certain  you  don't!" 

"Oh!"  said  Black  Hair,  who  was  really  rather 
peculiarly  nice.  "Then  why  didn't  you  spot  us 
before?" 

One  for  me. 

"I  have  no  doubt  I  should  have  done  so  in  a 
moment  more,"  I  said.  "The  fact  is" — what 
cowards  we  are! — "I  was  preoccupied  when  you 
came  in." 

Black  Hair  looked  adorably  as  if  she  didn't 
believe  it. 

"But  anyway,"  I  went  on,  "we  must  be  seri- 
ous.   What  would  your  people  say?" 

"We  left  word/'  said  Red  Hair,  "that  we  were 
going  off  to  do  something  for  our  country.  They 
(226) 


A  Letter 

won't  worry.     Oh^  please  be  kind  and  help  us!" 

Here  all  four  of  their  beautiful  eyes  grew  moist. 

I  could  have  hugged  both  of  them,  especially 
perhaps  Black  Hair,  but  I  kept  an  iron  hand 
on  myself. 

"You  nice  absurd  creatures,"  I  said,  "do  be 
reasonable.  To  begin  with,  passing  the  doctor 
is  an  absolute  necessity.  That  shuts  you  out. 
But  even  if  you  got  through,  how  do  you  think 
you  would  be  heliDing  your  country?  All  the 
men  would  be  falling  in  love  with  you ;  and  that's 
bad  enough  as  it  is  after  working  hours ;  it  would 
be  the  ruin  of  discipline.  And  you  could  not 
bear  the  fatigue.  No,  go  back  and  learn  to  be 
nurses  and  let  your  lovely  hair  grow  again." 

They  were  very  obstinate  and  very  unwilling 
to  entertain  the  thought  of  drudgery  such  as 
nursing  after  all  their  dreams  of  excitement;  but 
at  last  they  came  to  reason,  and  I  sent  for  a  cab 
and  packed  them  off  in  it  (I  simply  could  not 
bear  the  idea  of  other  people  seeing  them  in  that 
masquerade),  and  told  them  that  the  sooner  they 
changed  the  better. 

After  they  had  gone  the  Sergeant  came  in 
about  something. 

(227) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

I  said  nothing,  and  he  said  nothing,  each  of  us 
waiting  for  the  other. 

He  moved  about  absolutely  silently,  and  I 
dared  not  meet  his  glance  because  I  knew  I 
should  give  myself  away.  The  rascal  has  not 
been  running  his  eye  over  young  women  all  these 
years  without  being  able  to  tell  them  in  a  mo- 
ment, even  in  navvy's  clothes. 

At  last  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "Damn 
it,"  I  said,  "what  are  you  doing.''  Why  don't 
you  go?  I  didn't  send  for  you."  But  still  I 
didn't  dare  look  up. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  had  something  to  say 
to  me,  sir,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  I  replied.  "Why  should  I? 
What  about?" 

"Only  about  those  two  young  men,  sir,"  he 
replied. 

"Get  out,"  I  said;  but  before  he  could  go  I 
had  burst  into  laughter. 

"Better  not  mention  it,"  I  managed  to  say. 

He  promised. 

There — won't  you  find  that  useful? 

Yours,  C.  S. 

(228) 


A  MANOR  IN  THE  AIR 

THE  stately  homes  of  England  have  ever 
numbered  some  very  odd  names.  Every 
one  remembers  that  beautiful  Southern  retreat 
whither^  to  the  delight  of  the  wags^  Mr.  Bal- 
four often  journeyed  for  his  week-end  holiday — 
"Clouds,"  the  seat  of  the  Wyndhams.  Could 
there  be  a  much  more  fascinating  name  than 
"Clouds"?  And  then  there  is  "Wrest,"  the  late 
Lord  Lucas's  Bedfordshire  home,  afterwards 
transformed,  how  suitably,  into  a  hospital  for 
soldiers.  And  there  is  that  Midland  paradise 
which,  in  the  days  of  placid,  even  life,  the  editors 
of  illustrated  weeklies  always  recollected  with 
gratitude  when  they  were  short  of  other  pictures 
— "Compton  Wynyates." 

But  the  new  name  which  I  have  just  discov- 
ered, and  which  fills  the  inward  eye  with  joy, 
is  a  house  on  a  smaller  scale  than  these — a  manor- 

(229) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

house  rather  than  a  mansion,  perhaps  one  of 
the  smallest  that  can  be  described  as  a  "gentle- 
man's place,"  but  assuredly  that.  Somewhere 
in  Sussex,  western  Sussex. 

It  is  not  near  the  station,  and  to  reach  it  you 
walk  or  drive  along  winding  roads  just  now  sod- 
den with  rain,  but  smelling  of  the  good  wet  Sus- 
sex leaves  and  mast  and  soil,  with  the  Downs 
rising  not  too  many  miles  away  in  the  South. 
Then  a  turn  into  a  narrow  lane,  with  the  bare 
trees  of  a  copse  on  either  side  and  a  scurrying 
pheasant  in  front  of  you,  and  behold  the  white 
gate!  There  is  no  lodge — the  house  is  just  too 
small  for  that,  as  you  can  now  see  for  yourself, 
for  there  it  is,  under  the  protection  of  the  wood 
that  rises  behind  it,  so  quiet  and  self-contained 
that  you  almost  gasp. 

Very  old  it  is,  but  good  for  many  years  more. 
The  frame  is  of  timber  and  plaster,  and  a  Hors- 
ham stone  roof.  These  stones  are  a  little  damp 
and  moss-covered  (for  our  ancestors  insisted  on 
building  in  a  hole,  or  where  would  Friday's  fish 
come  from?),  and  the  place  is  as  Tudor  as  Queen 
Bess  herself,  in  whose  reign  its  foundations  were 
dug.  The  chimney  stacks,  all  smoking  with  the 
(230) 


A  Manor  in  the  Air 

thin  blue  smoke  of  logs,  are  of  tiny  Tudor  bricks, 
and  the  chimneys  are  set  not  square  with  the 
house  but  cornerways.  A  long  low  facade  with 
the  central  door  in  a  square  porch;  the  whole 
grave  but  serene. 

A  path  of  more  Horsham  stone  leads  to  the 
door,  with  thyme  and  lavender  springing  from 
the  interstices  undismayed  by  the  feet  of  man, 
and  smooth  lawns  on  each  side,  and  under  the 
diamond-paned  windows  a  bed  where  in  summer 
would  be  night  stock  and  lemon  verbena  and  to- 
bacco plant  and  mignonette.  On  the  roof  a  few 
white  fantails;  a  spaniel  near  the  door;  and  a 
great  business  of  rooks  in  the  sky.  Through 
the  windows  of  the  lower  rooms  you  see  the 
greenery  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  a  sugges- 
tion here  and  there  of  books  and  pictures — every- 
thing that  makes  a  house  a  home. 

Beside  the  house  on  the  right  are  the  stables; 
and  on  the  other  side  is  a  dark  shrubbery,  and 
beyond  that  are  more  lawns  and  gardens  and  the 
fish-pond. 

Do  you  see  it.''  Perhaps  you  have  already  seen 
it  differently;  for  how  could  you  help  forming 
some  mental  picture  of  it  when  in  every  carriage 

(231) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

on  the  L.B.  &  S.C.R.  is  posted  up  the  notice, 
"Passengers   to   Lower    Blinds"? 

To  me  "Lower  Blinds,"  whither  all  these  for- 
tunate passengers  are  journeying,  is  just  such 
a  manor-house  as  that. 


(232) 


RIVALRY 

WHEN  I  sat  do-vvn  on  the  seat  facing  the 
Row  there  was  already  on  it  a  soldier  in 
the  familiar  blue  clothes.  He  had  the  red  mous- 
tache which  inevitably  leads  to  the  nickname  of 
"Ginger,"  or  possibly  "Carrots,"  and  he  was 
smoking  a  cigarette.  By  his  side  were  his 
crutches.  After  a  minute  or  so  a  very  tall  fig- 
ure, also  in  blue,  hobbled  towards  us  and  took 
the  space  between  Ginger  and  myself. 

The  freemasonry  of  arms  has,  I  suppose,  al- 
ways, among  rankers,  made  any  introduction 
needless;  but  there  has  unhappily  come  in  a  new 
and  a  super  freemasonry  which  goes  beyond  any- 
thing that  uniform  could  do.  I  mean  the  free- 
masonry of  mutilation.  By  reason  of  their 
wounds  these  strangers  were  as  brothers. 

At  first  they  talked  hospitals.  Then  regi- 
ments. Then  Haig,  of  whom  it  has  so  finely 
and  finally  been  said,  by  another  British  hero: 

(2S3) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

"  'Aig  'e  don't  say  much ;  'e  don't,  so  to  say,  say 
nothin';  but  what  'e  don't  say  don't  mean  noth- 
in',  not  'arf.  But  when  'e  do  say  something — 
my  Gawd !"  Then  they  came  to  grips  and  men- 
tioned the  cause  of  their  injuries — bullet  or 
shrapnel.  Then  the  time  and  the  place.  Both 
had  been  hit  in  the  knee,  and  this  coincidence, 
operating  like  all  coincidences,  added  to  their 
friendliness.  Their  cigarettes  finishing  simul- 
taneously, Ginger  gave  Six-foot-two  one  of  his; 
and  Six-foot-two  offered  his  little  packet  to  Gin- 
ger in  exchange. 

"Do  you  often  come  here?"  Ginger  asked. 

"Every  fine  day,"  said  Six-foot-two,  "unless 
there's  a  ride  in  a  brake  or  a  free  matinee  on  the 
tappy." 

"I  must  look  you  up  again,"  said  Ginger. 

"Do,"  said  Six-foot-two.  "When  do  you  ex- 
pect to  leave.''" 

"I  can't  say,"  replied  Ginger.  "There's  no 
knowing.  You  see  mine's  a  very  extraordinary 
case."     He  smiled  complacently. 

"That's  funny.     So's  mine,"  said  Six-foot-two. 

"How  do  you  mean — extraordinary.^"  the  other 
asked  a  little  sharply. 
(234) 


The  Rivals 

"Why,  the  doctors  have  had  so  much  difficulty 
with  it.  It's  a  unique,  they  say.  How  many 
operations  did  you  have?" 

"How  many  did  you  have?"  Ginger  replied, 
with  the  caution  of  the  challenged. 

"Go  on — I  asked  you  first,"  said  Six-foot-two. 
"Was  it  more  than  eight,  anyway?" 

"It  was  ten,"  said  Ginger. 

"Well,  I  had  eleven,"  said  Six-foot-two 
proudly.  "They  went  after  those  bullets  eleven 
times.  But  they're  all  out  now.  I  had  every 
doctor  in  the  place  round  me." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Ginger,  "and  one  of  my  bul- 
lets isn't  out  yet.  It's  right  in  the  bone.  They're 
going  to  try  again  soon."  He  had  quite  recov- 
ered his   good-humour. 

"What  about  your  patella?"  Six-foot-two  in- 
quired after  a  pause. 

"My  what?" 

"Your  patella.  Do  you  mean  to  say  the  doc- 
tors didn't  talk  about  that?" 

"I  dare  say  they  may  have  done,  but  I  don't 
remember.  Still,  our  doctors  don't  talk  much — 
they  act." 

"Well,  so  do  ours.     There  aren't  better  doctors 

(235) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

in  the  world  than  at  our  place,  I  can  tell  you. 
It's  common  knowledge.  Why,  Sir  Rashleigh 
Hewitt  is  there  every  day — the  great  Sir  Rash- 
leigh Hewitt,  the  King's  doctor." 

"Well,  the  King  has  more  than  one.  Sir 
Frank  Carver  is  another,  and  he's  at  our  place 
day  and  night.     He's  a  masterpiece." 

"I've  always  understood,"  said  Six-feet-two, 
"that  Sir  Rashleigh  is  at  the  very  head  of  his 
profession.     The  nurses  say  so." 

"He  may  be  for  some  things,"  Ginger  con- 
ceded. "But  not  the  knee.  Sir  Frank  Carver 
is  the  crack  knee  man.  Now  if  you'd  been  at  our 
place  I  dare  say  that  one  operation  would  have 
been  enough  for  you." 

"Enough.''  Wliat  rot!  How  could  it  be 
enough,  with  all  the  complications?  I  tell  you 
it's  a  unique,  my  case." 

"Yes,  it  may  be.  But  what  I'm  getting  at  is 
that  it  might  not  be  if  you'd  had  Sir  Frank 
Carver,  the  great  knee  specialist,  at  it  at  once." 

"Oh,  give  Sir  Frank  Carver  a  rest.     Sir  Rash- 
leigh Hewitt's  good  enough  for  me  and  for  any- 
one else  who  knows." 
(236) 


The  Rivals 

"All  right/'  said  Ginger.  "Keep  your  hair 
on!" 

"My  hair's  on  right  enough,"  said  Six-foot- 
two.     "It's  you  who  are  getting  ratty." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  both  lighted  new 
cigarettes,  each  taking  one  of  his  own. 

"What  puzzles  me,"  Six-foot-two  began  slow- 
ly, "is  no  one  saying  anything  about  your  patella. 
That's  the  great  marvel  of  my  case — my  patella. 
It's  full  of  holes,  like  a  sieve.  There's  never 
been  one  like  it  before.  The  profession's  wild 
about  it.  That's  what  makes  me  so  interesting 
to  them." 

"Where  is  it,  anyway?"  Ginger  snapped  out. 

"In  the  knee,  of  course." 

"In  the  knee!  Well,  if  it's  in  the  knee  mine 
must  be  full  of  holes  too.  I've  got  everything 
you  can  have  in  the  knee,  I  tell  you.  Every- 
thing." 

"Have  they  written  anything  about  you  in 
the  papers.''"  Six-foot-two  asked.  "No.  Ah,"  he 
went  on  triumphantly,  "they  have  about  me. 
There's  a  medical  paper  with  a  piece  in  it  all 
about  my  patella.  I  sent  it  home  and  they've 
framed   it.      It's  the  most  astonishing  thing  in 

(237) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

surgery  that  I  should  be  able  to  be  walking  about 
at  all." 

"That's  what  they  tell  me"  Ginger  replied. 
"But,  anyhow,  your  bullets  are  all  out.  I've 
got  another  one  yet,  and  by  the  time  that's 
out  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  had  twenty  operations 
and  a  whole  column  in  the  papers.  But  as  for 
articles  in  papers,  they're  nothing.  Have  you 
got  your  X-ray  photograph.'*" 

"No,"  Six-foot-two  admitted. 

"They  gave  me  mine,"  said  Ginger.  "I  sent 
it  home.  It's  over  the  mantelpiece,  my  mother 
says.  People  come  from  miles  to  look  at  it.  It's 
a  pity  you  didn't  get  yours.  That  was  foolish 
of  you,  if  I  may  say  so.  Well,  so  long.  I'm 
having  tea  to-day  with  one  of  our  grand  lady 
visitors  in  Rutland  Gate.  If  you  don't  see  me 
here  when  you  come  again,  the  chances  are  I 
shall  be  having  my  next  operation.     So  long!" 

"So  long!"  said  Six-foot-two. 

Ginger  on  his  crutches  moved  away. 

"Extraordinary,"       Six-foot-two       murmured, 
either  to   me  or  to  himself  or  to   the   Park   at 
large,  "how  some  blokes  alwaj^s  want  to  be  the 
most  important  things  in  the  world." 
(238) 


A  FIRST  COMMUNION  IN  THE  WAR 
ZONE 

EVERYONE  who  has  made  a  stay  in  Paris 
or  in  any  French  town,  and  has  been  at  all 
observant,  must  have  noticed,  either  singly  or  in 
little  groups,  that  prettiest  of  the  flora  and  fauna 
of  Roman  Catholic  countries,  a  "first  communi- 
cant" in  her  radiant  and  spotless  attire — from 
white  shoes  to  white  veil,  and  crown  of  innocence 
over  all.  One  sees  them  usually  after  the  cere- 
mony, soberly  marching  through  the  streets,  or 
flitting  from  this  friend  to  that  like  runaway 
lilies.  Prinking  and  preening  a  little  in  the  shop 
windows,  too;  and  no  wonder,  for  it  is  something 
to  be  thus  clad  and  thus  important;  and  never 
will  such  clothes  be  worn  by  these  wearers  again. 
Meanwhile  the  younger  children  envy,  and  little 
attendant  bodies  of  proud  relations  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  admire  and  exult. 

If  I  write  as  if  all  "first  communicants"  are 

(239) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

little  girls,  it  is  because  it  is  the  little  girls  who 
are  the  most  noticeable.  And  who  cares  about 
little  boys  anyway?  Yet  boys  communicate  too, 
and  in  their  broad  white  collars  and  with  their 
knots  of  white  ribbon  they  may  also  be  seen, 
although  less  frankly  delighted;  indeed,  often  a 
little  self-conscious  and  ashamed.  But  the  little 
girls,  who  know  instinctively  that  women  are  the 
backbone  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  they 
are  natural  and  full  of  happy  pride;  they  carry 
it  off  with  style. 

In  the  spring  of  1915  it  was  my  fortune  not 
only  to  know  personally  a  bouquet  of  these  eager 
little  French  pietists,  but  to  be  present  as  one 
of  the  congregation  at  the  great  event — their 
premiere  communion.  It  was  not  in  Paris,  nor 
in  a  town  at  all,  but  far  away  in  the  country,  in 
a  village  where  the  guns  of  Verdun  could  be 
heard  in  the  lulls  of  the  service.  There  were  six 
little  girls  in  all,  and  I  saw  them  pass  into  the 
safe  keeping  of  their  new  mother,  the  Church  of 
Rome,  and  in  visible  token  receive  from  the  of- 
ficiating hands  a  pictorial  certificate  so  chro- 
matically violent  that  it  could  not  but  satisfy 
any  childish  eyes  and,  under  such  conditions  of 
(240) 


A  First  Communion 

emotional  excitement,  must  ever  remain  as  a 
symbol  of  their  consecration.  I  heard,  too,  the 
cure's  address  to  these  lambs,  in  which  he  briefly 
outlined  the  life  and  character  of  Christ  and  of 
certain  of  the  disciples,  coming  to  each  with 
much  the  same  tender  precision  and  ecstasy  as  a 
fastidious  and  enthusiastic  collector  to  the  choic- 
est porcelain. 

But  what  chiefly  interested  me  was  the  form  of 
the  vow  which  the  good  cure — one  of  the  best  of 
men,  who,  in  September  191  "i^  saw  his  church 
reduced  to  ruins  and  most  of  his  parish  destroyed 
by  fire  by  the  invading  Huns,  and  never  budged 
from  his  post — had  himself  recently  drawn  up 
for  such  occasions.  What  the  usual  form  of  such 
documents  is  I  cannot  say,  but  in  view  of  the 
serious  plight  of  France  and  the  renaissance  of 
patriotic  fervour  in  the  brave  and  unconquer- 
able French  nation,  the  cure  had  infused  into 
this  one  an  element  of  public  duty  hitherto 
omitted. 

At  the  end  of  the  "jolie  ceremonie,"  as  in 
conversation  he  called  it,  and  as  it  truly  was,  I 
asked  him  for  a  copy  of  this  admirable  catechism, 
and  here  are  a  few  of  its  questions  and  answers. 

(241) 


A  Bosweli  of  Baghdad 

The  title  is  "A  Promise  to  be  a  good  Christian 
and  a  good  citizen  of  France": 

Q.  What  is  the  road  to  Heaven? 

A.  That  which  my  mother,  the  Holy  Roman 
Church,  shows  me.  If  I  follow  it,  I  am  convinced 
that,  while  gaining  happiness  for  myself,  I  shall 
increase  the  glory  of  my  family  and  the  honour 
of  my   country. 

Q.  Does  the  Church  command  you  to  obey  the 
legitimate  laws  of  your  country? 

A.  Yes;  and  I  must  be  ready,  if  needful,  to 
give  my  blood  for  her.  (Poor  little  white  pea- 
cocks !) 

Q.  On  whom  do  you  count  to  assist  you? 

A.  Here,  on  earth,  on  my  parents  and  on  my 
instructors.  Above,  on  God,  on  the  angels  and 
the  saints,  and  principally  on  my  guardian  angel, 
on  the  holy  Saint  Peter,  and  on  the  blessed  Joan 
of  Arc. 

Q.   Who  are  your  enemies? 

A.  The  enemies  of  France,  and  those  who,  all 
unenlightened,  attack  the  Church. 

Q.   What  is  your  ambition? 

A.  To  see  France  victorious  and  united  in  a 
bond  of  love  ivith  the  Church,  to  see  her  add  to 
(242) 


Young  France 

the  trocolour  the  Image  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and 
to  see  her  take  soon  her  place  at  the  head  of  the 
nations. 

Is  not  that  rather  fine?  It  must  be  to  the 
good  thus  to  blend  religion  and  patriotism.  I 
knew  that,  especially  on  that  soil  over  which  the 
Germans  had  spread  so  devastatingly,  one  could 
not  listen  to  these  fresh  young  voices  raised  to- 
gether in  such  idealism  without  a  quickened 
heart. 


'(243) 


THE  ACE  OF  DIAMONDS 

THE  French,  always  so  quick  to  give  things 
names — and  so  liberal  about  it  that,  to  the 
embarrassment  and  undoing  of  the  unhappy  for- 
eigner, they  sometimes  invent  fifty  names  for 
one  thing — have  added  so  many  words  to  the 
vocabulary  since  August  1914  that  a  glossary, 
and  perhaps  more  than  one,  has  been  published 
to  enshrine  them.  Without  the  assistance  of  this 
glossary  it  is  almost  impossible  to  understand 
some  of  the  numerous  novels  of  Poilu  life. 

By  no  means  the  least  imjDortant  of  these  cre- 
ations is  the  infinitesimal  word  "as" — or  rather, 
it  is  a  case  of  adaptation.  Yesterday  "as  des 
carreaux"  (to  give  the  full  form)  stood  simply 
for  ace  of  diamonds.  To-day  all  France,  with 
that  swift  assimilation  which  has  ever  been  one 
of  its  many  mysteries,  knows  its  new  meaning 
and  applies  it.  And  what  is  this  new  meaning? 
(244) 


"Un  As" 

Well,  "as"  has  two.  Originally  it  was  applied 
strictly  to  flying  men,  and  it  was  reserved  to 
signify  an  aviator  who  had  brought  down  his 
fifth  enemy  machine.  Had  he  brought  down 
only  four  he  was  a  gallant  fellow  enough,  but  he 
was  not  an  "as."  One  more  and  he  was  an  ace 
of  diamonds,  that  card  being  the  fifth  honour  in 
most  French  games  as  well  as  in  Bridge. 

So  much  for  the  first  and  exact  meaning  of 
the  term.  But  later,  as  I  gather  from  a  number 
of  La  Bdionnette  devoted  to  its  uses,  the  word 
has  been  extended  to  cover  all  kinds  of  obscure 
heroes,  the  men,  and  they  are  by  no  means 
rare,  who  do  wonderful  things  but  do  not  get 
Into  the  papers  or  receive  medals  or  any  mention 
in  dispatches.  We  all  know  that  many  of  the 
finest  deeds  performed  in  war  escape  recognition. 
One  does  not  want  to  suggest  that  V.C.'s  and 
D.S.O.'s  and  Military  Crosses  and  all  the  other 
desirable  tokens  of  valour  are  conferred  wrongly. 
Nothing  of  the  kind.  They  are  nobly  deserved. 
But  probably  there  never  was  a  recipient  of  the 
V.C.  or  the  D.S.O.  or  the  Military  Cross  who 
could  not — and  did  not  wish  to — tell  his  Sov- 
ereign, when  the  coveted  honour  was  being  pinned 

(2i5) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

to  his  breast^  of  some  other  soldier  not  less  worthy 
than  himself  of  being  decorated,  whose  deed  of 
gallantry  was  performed  under  less  noticeable 
conditions.  The  performer  of  such  a  deed  is  an 
"as"  and  it  is  his  luck  to  be  a  not  public  hero. 

The  "as"  can  be  found  in  every  branch  of  the 
army,  and  he  is  recognized  as  one  by  his  com- 
rades, even  although  the  world  at  large  is  igno- 
rant. Perhaps  we  shall  find  a  word  for  his 
British  correlative,  who  must  be  numerically  very 
strong  too.  The  letter  A  alone  might  do  it,  sig- 
nifying anonymous.  "Voila,  un  as !"  says  the 
French  soldier,  indicating  one  of  these  brave 
modest  fellows  who  chances  to  be  passing.  "You 
see  that  chap,"  one  of  our  soldiers  would  say; 
"he's  an  A." 

That  satirical  child  of  the  war.  La  Bdionnette, 
every  week  devotes  itself,  as  its  forerunner, 
L'Assiette  au  Beurre,  used  to  do,  to  one  theme 
at  a  time,  one  phase  or  facet  of  the  struggle, 
usually  in  the  army,  but  also  in  civil  life,  where 
changes  due  to  the  war  steadily  occur.  In  the 
number  dedicated  to  the  glory  of  the  "as"  I 
find  recorded  an  incident  of  the  French  Army 
so  moving  that  I  want  to  tell  it  here,  very  freely, 
(246) 


A  Farmyard 

in  English.  It  was,  says  the  writer,  before  the 
attack  at  Carency — and  he  vouehes  for  the  ac- 
curacy of  his  report,  for  he  was  himself  present. 
In  the  little  village  of  Camblain-l'Abbe  a  regi- 
ment was  assembled,  and  to  them  spoke  their 
captain.  The  scene  was  the  yard  of  a  farm.  I 
know  so  well  what  it  was  like.  The  great  ma- 
nure heap  in  the  middle;  the  carts  under  cover, 
with  perhaps  one  or  two  American  reapers  and 
binders  among  them ;  fowls  pecking  here  and 
there;  a  thin  predatory  dog  nosing  about;  a  cart- 
horse peering  from  his  stable  and  now  and  then 
scraping  his  hoofs;  a  very  wide  woman  at  the 
dwelling-house  door;  the  old  farmer  in  blue  linen 
looking  on;  and  there,  drawn  up,  listening  to 
their  captain,  row  on  row  of  blue-coated  men,  all 
hard-bitten,  weary,  all  rather  cynical,  all  weath- 
er-stained and  frayed,  and  all  ready  to  go  on 
for  ever. 

This  is  what  the  captain  said — a  tall  thin  man 
of  about  thirty,  speaking  calmly  and  naturally 
as  though  he  was  reading  a  book.  "I  have  just 
seen  the  Colonel,"  he  said;  "he  has  been  in  con- 
ference with  the  Commandant,  and  this  is  what 
has  been  settled.     In  a  day  or  two  it  is  up  to 

(247) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

us  to  attack.  You  know  the  place  and  what  it 
all  means.  At  such  and  such  an  hour  we  shall 
begin.  Very  well.  Now  this  is  what  will  hap- 
pen. I  shall  be  the  first  to  leave  the  trench  and 
go  over  the  top,  and  I  shall  be  killed  at  once. 
So  far  so  good.  I  have  arranged  with  the  two 
lieutenants  for  the  elder  of  them  to  take  my 
place.  He  also  will  almost  certainly  be  killed. 
Then  the  younger  will  lead,  and  after  him  the 
sergeants  in  turn,  according  to  their  age,  begin- 
ning with  the  oldest  who  was  with  me  at  Saida 
before  the  war.  What  will  be  left  by  the  time 
you  have  reached  the  point  I  cannot  say,  but  you 
must  be  prepared  for  trouble,  as  there  is  a  lot  of 
ground  to  cover,  under  fire.  But  you  will  take 
the  point  and  hold  it.  Fall  out." 
That  captain  was  an  "as." 


(248) 


THE  REWARD  OF  OUR  BROTHER  THE 
POILU 

WE  often  talk  of  the  best  poem  which  the 
war  has  produced;  and  opinions  usually 
vary.  My  own  vote^  so  far  as  England  is  con- 
cerned, is  still  given  to  Julian  Grenfell's  lyric  of 
the  fighting  man;  but  if  France  is  to  be  included 
too,  one  must  consider  very  seriously  the  claims 
of  La  Passion  de  Notre  Frere  le  Poilu,  by  INIarc 
Leclerc,  which  may  be  had  in  a  little  slender 
paper-covered  book,  at  a  cost,  in  France,  where 
it  has  been  selling  in  its  thousands,  of  one  franc 
twenty-five.  This  poem  I  have  been  reading 
with  a  pleasure  that  calls  to  be  shared  with 
others,  for  it  is  not  only  very  touching  and  very 
beautiful,  but  it  has  also  certain  of  those  quali- 
ties which  are  more  thoroughly  appreciated  in 
company.  Beauty  and  tenderness  can  make  their 
appeal  alone;  but  humour  demands  two  at  least 

(219) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

and  does  not  resent  a  crowd,  and  the  humour  of 
this  little  masterpiece  is  very  deep  and  true. 

Did  I  say  I  had  been  reading  it?  That  is  to 
use  words  with  unjustifiable  looseness;  rather 
should  I  say  that  I  have  been  in  part  reading  and 
in  part  guessing  at  it;  for  it  is  written  in  the 
Angevin  patois,  which  is  far  beyond  my  lin- 
guistic capacity.  Not  that  Captain  Leclerc  is  a 
rustic;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  a  man  of  culture 
and  the  author  of  several  books,  chiefly  on  and 
about  Anjou,  one  of  which  has  illustrations  from 
his  own  hand;  but  it  has  amused  him  in  this 
poem  to  employ  his  native  dialect,  while,  since 
he,  like  so  many  French  authors,  is  fighting, 
the  soldierly  part  of  it  is  authentic. 

It  was  a  poor  devil  of  a  Poilu — it  begins — and 
he  went  to  the  war,  automatically  enough,  know- 
ing without  any  words  about  it  that  the  soil 
which  he  cultivated  must  also  be  defended.  That 
was  his  duty.  After  suffering  the  usual  ills 
of  the  campaign,  suddenly  a  210  burst  near  him, 
and  he  never  rallied.  He  just  had  time  to  give 
a  few  messages  to  the  corporal  before  he  died. 
"You  must  tell  my  wife,"  he  said,  "but  do  it 
gradually;  say,  I'm  ill  first.  Give  what  money 
(250) 


The  Last  Judgment 

I  have  here  to  my  pals^"  and  so  forth.  Then, 
after  repeating  his  testament,  he  passed  quietly 
away. 

On  reaching  the  gate  of  Heaven  the  Poilu 
finds  St.  Peter  beating  the  mats.  "Wipe  your 
shoes,"  St.  Peter  says,  "and  take  the  right-hand 
corridor.  The  Judgment  Hall  is  at  the  end." 
All  trembling,  the  poor  fellow  passes  along  the 
corridor,  at  the  end  of  which  an  angel  in  white 
takes  down  particulars  as  to  his  name,  his  class, 
and  so  forth,  and  tells  him  that  he  is  expected. 
Entering  the  Judgment  Hall,  the  Poilu  is  be- 
wildered by  its  austerity  and  splendour.  The 
Good  God  is  at  the  head,  between  Jesus  Christ 
and  the  Blessed  Virgin.  All  the  saints  are  there, 
and  the  Poilu  notices  particularly  the  military 
ones — St.  George,  St.  Hubert,  St.  Michael,  St. 
Leonard,  St.  Marcel,  St.  Charlemagne,  St.  Mar- 
tin, St.  Sulpice,  St.  Barbe,  St.  Maurice,  and  St. 
Jeanne  d'Arc.  Seeing  all  these  famous  soldiers, 
he  exclaims,  "It's  a  Conseil  de  Guerre!  Perhaps 
I  can  slip  away."  But  escape  is  impossible,  and 
at  this  moment  the  Good  God  tells  him  to  begin 
his  history. 

"What  did  you  do  before  the  war?"  He  asks. 

(251) 


A  Bos  well  of  Baghdad 

The  Poilu  replies  that  he  was  a  farmer  in  a  very 
small  way;  he  worked  on  the  land,  and  he  had 
some  stock — two  oxen,  a  horse,  a  cow,  a  wife, 
some  fowls,  "and,  saving  your  presence,  a  pig." 
"Ah !"  exclaims  St.  Anthony,  "a  pig.  That  re- 
minds me !  Pigs  !  Sois  beni,  men  f  rere."  But 
the  Good  God  frowns,  and  St.  Anthony  makes 
himself  very  small. 

And  then,  the  Poilu  continues,  he  became  a 
soldier,  which  leads  to  the  awkward  question, 
had  he  always  behaved  himself  as  such  ?  Alas ! 
it  appears  that  he  had  not.  For  one  thing,  he 
has  not  always  been  sober,  he  is  confessing,  when 
Noah  interrupts  with  the  comment  that  inso- 
briety is  not  such  a  very  serious  affair.  In  fact, 
he  himself  once  .  .  .  and  by  this  time  the  reader 
begins  to  get  the  drift  of  this  joyous  humane  fan- 
tasy, the  point  being  that  the  hierarchy  of  Heav- 
en are  all  on  the  side  of  the  brave  simple  soldier 
who  has  died  that  France  might  live.  As  how 
could  they  not  be?  Another  time,  the  Poilu  con- 
tinues, he  was  sent  to  prison  for  cutting  a  piece 
from  his  coat  in  order  to  mend  the  seat  of  his 
trousers — in  other  words,  for  injuring  Govern- 
ment property;  and  here  St.  Martin  breaks  in 
(252) 


Saint  Martin 

with  indignation  at  the  punishment.  "Whj^ 
when  I  did  very  much  the  same,"  he  says,  "and 
cut  my  cloak  to  cover  a  paralytic,  I  was  canon- 
ized for  it!"     And  so  on. 

Then  comes  a  graver  note.  The  Poilu,  feeling 
an  effort  to  be  necessary,  for  the  Good  God  has 
never  relaxed  His  sternness  throughout,  becomes 
eloquent.  Not  only  was  he  killed,  but  before 
that,  he  says,  he  suffered  much.  The  hardships 
of  war  on  the  Western  front  are  terrible.  He 
had  been  famished,  he  had  been  frozen,  he  had 
been  burned  by  the  sun.  He  had  been  sleepless, 
he  had  been  footsore,  and  the  sweat  had  poured 
from  him  under  his  heavy  burdens,  for  often  he 
had  carried  not  only  his  own  haversack  but  those 
of  his  comrades.  In  short  .  .  .  But  here  St. 
Simon,  speaking  softly  to  Christ,  says,  "Like 
you.  Lord,  at  Golgotha."  In  my  prose  this  is,  of 
course,  too  crude;  but  I  assure  you  that  in  the 
poem  it  is  a  great  moment.  And  another  follows 
it,  for  as  the  Good  God  still  says  nothing,  the 
Poilu  points  to  the  blue  robe  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  to  the  great  white  beard  of  the 
Good  God  himself,  and  to  the  red  cloak  of  our 
Lord,    and    exclaims,    "Voila   mes    trois    couleurs 

(253) 


A  Boswell  of  Baghdad 

The  three  colours  of  France.  It  was  for  them 
that  I  have  lost  my  life;  fighting  for  them  has 
brought  me  to  this  Judgment  Hall!" 

That  is  fine,  is  it  not  ?  Only  the  French  genius 
is  capable  of  just  such  a  splendid  blend  of 
naivete,  emotion,  and  the  best  kind  of  theatrical- 
ism.  And  at  these  words  at  last  the  Good  God 
smiles,  and  behind  Him  Heaven  opens  for  the 
Poilu  to  enter. 

There  is  a  little  more — for  it  seems  that  Heav- 
en is  full  of  Poilus  with  blue  caps,  and  golden 
helmets,  and  wings  that  remove  the  possibility  of 
getting  wet  feet  or  weary  feet  any  more  for  ever 
and  ever.  And  our  Poilu  joins  these  others,  who 
look  happy  and  are  happy,  and  sings  with  them 
"Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,"  while  the  angels, 
not  perhaps  wholly  without  irony,  answer,  "Peace 
on  earth  and  goodwill  to  men." 


(254) 


Note 


NOTE 

WITH  the  exception  of  a  few  pages^  the 
longest  essay  in  this  book — tliat  which 
gives  it  its  title — is  now  published  for  the  first 
time.  The  papers  grouped  under  the  headings 
"Diversions"  and  "On  Bellona's  Hem"  which 
follow  have  already  appeared  in  print,  in  Punch 
and  The  Sphere,  but  in  their  present  form  have 
been  always  revised  and  often  extended. 


X'i56) 


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